Johnny Cade's Designer Defense
by gloryblastit
Summary: A hot shot lawyer from Oklahoma City thinks he can make a name for himself by defending Johnny and Ponyboy.
1. Default Chapter

Preface  
  
I'm a lawyer. Just passed the bar in Oklahoma City and scouting around for a good case. I want to be like F.Lee Bailey, make a name for myself on some high profile case.  
I read the papers from all over the state. See if I can't find something juicy I could get in on at the ground level. You got to be an ambulance chaser.  
I found something interesting out of Tulsa. Couple of days ago a high school kid was found dead in a park on the poor side of town. A rich kid. The two poor kids involved skipped town.  
This is good. Great. These two in the paper, they look so young. 14 and 16. Johnny Cade and Ponyboy Curtis. Ponyboy? What a name. I'll never get over these hick names. Won't find a name like that in the Northeast, where I'm from. Looks like the Cade kid is the one who did it, knifed the poor bastard in cold blood. Ponyboy must just be along for the ride.  
Well, looks like I'm heading for Tulsa. I'll poke around, see if I can't talk to people who know these two. Who knows? I may be able to win this case.  
  
Setting the Ground Work  
  
I arrive in Tulsa. Grab a paper and a coffee. It's front page news again. Police looking in Texas for missing fugitives.  
The logical place to start is Cade's house. I brace myself for distraught parents, maybe weepy siblings, who the hell knows?  
I knock, glance around at the ragged junk filled lawn. Rotting tacked on porch, junk cars.  
"Yes?" A small, dark haired, dark eyed woman opens the door a crack, regards me suspiciously.  
"Mrs. Cade?" I use my most polite, ingratiating tone. The old charm.  
"What?" She's not biting, those big dark eyes narrowed to suspicious little slits.  
"I'm D.K. Williams, a lawye"  
"We ain't talkin' to no more reporters!" She slams the door. I knock again and call out plaintivily, "Ma'am".  
The door opens a crack. I've got to be fast.  
"I'm not a reporter, ma'am, I'm a lawyer, and I think I can help your son,"  
She looks at me, the suspicion tempered by doubt.  
"He's not here," she says.  
"I know that, but I thought if I could talk to you about him I"  
"Look, I said he ain't here. You know where he is? He's off with those no count hoodlum friends of his, and now they've gotten him into trouble..." She trails off, looks back into the house because of a noise, and her suspicious doubtful look darkens to fear.  
"Go talk to the Curtis's, he's always there anyhow," She slams the door in my face. They were my next stop. And luckily it's right up the street.  
At the Curtis residence the door is answered by a serious looking kid. He looks like a body builder who reads philosophy books.  
"Yeah?" He is suspicious, too. I clear my throat and wonder if I'll get any further with him.  
"I'm D.K. Williams, a lawyer from Oklahoma City. I heard about the incident that occurred here a few days ago. I came in the hopes that I could be of some assistance,"  
"Who is it, Dar?" a kid inside said, and came over to the door. This kid looks like some model or movie star.  
"A lawyer," he says, then opens the door, "come in,"  
We sit at the kitchen table and I'm introduced. Darrel and Sodapop. Sodapop? Christ, I'll never get used to these names. I thought Ponyboy was bad.  
Darrel was tense but still. Sodapop kind of bounced in his seat and looked ready to interrupt any second.  
"Mr.Williams," Darrel says, and shoots Sodapop a look that means, 'settle down,'. He tries but doesn't quite manage it.  
"Mr.Williams, I'm afraid we don't have any money," Darrel looks apologetic about this but not sorry.  
"I understand. I was planning on taking the case pro bono," If I win the publicity will more than make up for any monetary gains I miss up front.  
"Pro bono?" Sodapop says, bouncing in the seat again.  
"Yeah. It means for free," Darrel tells him.  
"So, what do you say?" I look to Darrel because he is the decision maker, I can see that.  
"Well, they're not here," he says slowly.  
"I know, do you know where they are?" I say, and I observe closely for the tell tale signs of lying. Darrel shakes his head and looks straight into my eyes.  
"No,"  
"It's o.k.," I say, and pull out a legal pad.  
"Anything you could tell me would be helpful," I sit back, uncap my pen, wait.  
"Like what?" Darrel says, and Sodapop looks again from Darrel to me and back again.  
"Like, well, what do you know about what happened in the park that night?"  
"The socs were hunting for them and Johnny killed one," Darrel says, not looking at me, hiding something.  
"Socs?" I say, jotting the word down. What in the hell is a soc?  
"It's what we call the rich kids," Sodapop says, and jumps up, comes over and looks at my paper.  
"Like socialites, ya know? High society, socs,"  
"Why were the 'socs' hunting for them?" I say. Darrel shrugs but Sodapop pipes up,  
"Those girls, right? Isn't that what Dal said? They picked up some soc girls at the drive in,"  
"Who is Dal?" I ask. Follow every lead.  
"Dallas Winston. He was with them at the movies for awhile," Darrel says. I circle the name. I'll need to speak with him.  
"And you don't know where they are?" I say. Darrel shakes his head but Sodapop says, "Dal knows," and Darrel glares at him. I really need to find this Dallas Winston. 


	2. ch2

Talking with Dallas  
  
Darrel and Sodapop gave me several locations where I might find Dallas Winston. I methodically checked them all and found him at none.  
  
I felt a raging dissappointment but tried to ignore it. This kid was the key, though. He knew where they were, he had been with them that night. I decided to check the locations again, and on my second go round I was lucky. I found him in a pool hall.  
  
Darrel and Sodapop had described him fairly well so I knew what to look for. Very blond hair with no grease, tall, tough looking. I knew it was him as I watched him squint at the pool ball, line up the shot, and sink it neatly.  
  
"Dallas Winston?" I said. He looked up for a moment, then lined up his next shot.  
  
"Yeah?" His tone was not quite suspicious.  
  
"My name is D.K. Williams, I'm a lawyer from"  
  
"So?" He said it quick and just short of hostile.  
  
"Well, I heard about the incident at the par"  
  
"Look, pal, I don't know nothin'," He sunk the next shot.  
  
I glanced around, taking in the dim light, the whiskey bottles lined up behind the bar, the grizzled old man staring into a drink.  
  
It was a matter of trust. He didn't trust me, of course.  
  
"I think I can help Johnny and Ponyboy. I think I can defend them,"  
  
He paused. I saw it. Then he turned to get another angle, and with his back to me he spoke again.  
  
"Doesn't matter. They're not here," I sighed. The one note refrain. It is hard to defend clients on the lam.  
  
"Dallas, listen to me. They killed a kid. A rich kid, a," I scrambled for the word Sodapop used, what did he call them?  
  
"A soc. They killed a soc. Where there is money there is power. They'll find them. Sooner or later, they'll find them,"  
  
He missed his shot, the cue ball ricocheting off the other balls and the side. He looked up at me through a shock of white blond hair.  
  
"They won't find 'em," There was something deadly in his voice, and I had trouble believing he was only 17 years old.  
  
"They're looking in Texas, they must have some leads. But cops don't publicize every place they look, fugitives can read papers, too. There's a train that runs through here quite close to that park. It wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility that they check around the stops of that train,"  
  
I struck a nerve. Dallas flinched slightly. He went over to the bar. After a moment I followed. He ordered a beer and fiddled with his fake I.D.  
  
"Look," I said, easing myself onto the stool next to him, "I think you know where they are. And I think I can help them,"  
  
The bartender set the beer in front of him and he eyed it, then took a long swallow.  
  
"Suppose I tell you where they are? Then what?"  
  
Heading to Windrixville  
  
Dallas was a hard nut to crack, but on our way up to Windrixville I got him to tell me what he knows.  
  
"Tell me about that night. What happened?"  
  
"We went to the nightly double and I tried to pick up this chick, Cherry something or other," I jotted this down. Cherry. I let him drive so I could write while he talked, but he drove a bit fast.  
  
"There was another girl with her, another soc. And Johnny told me to leave Cherry alone. I swear to you, if it had been anyone other than Johnny he woulda lost teeth. But it was Johnny, man. What could I do? So I left,"  
  
"Why? You do what Johnny says?" Follow every lead.  
  
"No, it ain't that. He don't usually say nothing. It's just that I can't hit him,"  
  
The scenery was a blur and we took corners almost on two wheels. We'd be in jail for reckless driving before we even reach the hide out.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"I don't know, man. It's just that you can't hit Johnny, he gets enough of that at home," Aha. This could be an angle. He gets hit at home. I already checked both Johnny and Ponyboy for a police record and neither have one. That was good. And the more the Cade kid is hit at home the better.  
  
"So like what? Beatings or just hit?"  
  
I see Dallas grip the steering wheel hard, his knuckles turn white. The signs are good.  
  
"Beatings," he says through gritted teeth. I decide not to push it. But it's a good start. 


	3. ch3

Ponyboy and Johnny  
  
Windrixville was the country. I grew up in Boston so I'm used to lots of people, lots of shops, lots of bars, big buildings, close winding streets, cars.  
There was nothing here.  
Dallas seemed to know where he was going so I didn't question him. I had that vague nervous feeling I get before meeting people who have been somewhat hyped up. I'd read about them in the papers, talked to people about them, but I couldn't let it color my perception.  
"Are you sure they'll be there?" I said.  
"They'll be there," Dallas didn't look at me, just stared at the road.  
The church had once been white but was now a weather beaten wood. It looked like it had been there 100 years and might fall over in a strong wind.  
Dallas skidded the car to a screeching halt and we walked across the overgrown field to the church. I saw jack rabbits scurry out of our way.  
We walked in and found the two boys asleep on the pews. Everything in the church was crumbling and covered in dust.  
They hadn't heard us come in and continued to sleep. They were covered in dust and their clothes looked slept in. One had black hair and a jean jacket, probably Johnny. His mother had black hair. The other one, Ponyboy, had bottle blond hair and was wrapped in an old cracked leather jacket.  
Dallas kicked the pew under Johnny and he jumped.  
"Huh?" Eyes closed.  
"Wake up," Dallas said, and kicked the pew under Ponyboy. He groaned and rolled over.  
"Check out the blond hair," Dallas said, ruffling his hair. Ponyboy jerked his head away.  
"Don't remind me,"  
Johnny was rubbing his eyes and finally focused on Dallas.  
"Dally! Are the cops after us, what did you hear, did="  
"Did Soda and Darry ask about me? Did="  
They both stopped talking and stared at me. They saw me at the same time. Their expressions darkened and both boys glared at me.  
"Who's this?" Ponyboy said, and moved closer to Johnny and slightly in front of him. Protective.  
"A lawyer," Dallas said.  
After introductions, I was right about who was who, they sat on the platform where the sermons were given and I sat on the rotting pew Johnny had been sleeping on. Dallas stood in the doorway, arms folded like a bouncer.  
"I've been reading about this incident, talking to some people, and I think I can defend you,"  
They both looked suspicious of me and sulky, like delinquent teenagers. I could already see them cleaned up for court. The fact that they looked young would help. The younger and more innocent looking the better. Juries judge a lot by looks. Thank God I wasn't defending Dallas. They'd fry him in a minute. But Johnny may have a chance.  
Ponyboy I hoped to get cleared of all charges. As it stood now he was an accomplice to murder. It would be tougher for Johnny. He did kill someone, a rich someone. A rich white someone. Poor choice of a murder victim. The poor killers of rich whites were far more likely to receive the death penalty than other murderers. It wasn't fair, but that is the way it is. Prosecutors go for the death penalty in those cases because they may be able to get it.  
But I could be his ace in the hole.  
It could be worse. He could have killed a cop. There's hardly any defending that. And he could have a police record, and he could look like a hoodlum, not just a young kid dressed up like one.  
"If I defend you you probably won't be tried together. It's rarely done. You'll be tried for different crimes with different possible penalties for those crimes," They looked nervous and fidgety. Johnny wasn't looking at me and biting a fingernail. Ponyboy was staring at me intently and wincing every so often.  
"They don't have to. They can stay here," Dallas said. Both boys looked to Dallas when he spoke and seemed comforted at the thought of staying here. Johnny quit biting his nail and Ponyboy's expression lightened.  
"You could. You could." I agreed, "It's fine now. But how will it be in the winter? And next year? And the one after that? How will you survive? The police will always be looking for you,"  
Johnny chewed on his nail again. Ponyboy sighed.  
"If we go back Johnny'll get the electric chair," Ponyboy said, looking directly at me. Johnny looked down and swallowed audibly.  
"You have the right to a trial. Juries decide if you're guilty or not guilty. From what I've heard so far these 'socs' came looking for you. So that's good. It puts it more in the area of self defense and not pre meditation. Pre meditation really helps prosecutors to get the death penalty. See, there's homicide and manslaughter."  
They sat together on that platform, looking like boys waiting to see the principal. 


	4. ch4

From the Horse's Mouth  
  
I was very interested to hear this story from Johnny. He killed that young man. I'd wanted to know how he perceived it.  
They agreed to talk about it, not to go back and turn themselves in, their eyes widening in fear at the thought, and Dallas scowling. But they would talk.  
I flipped to a fresh page in my yellow legal pad. Johnny closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and started talking.  
"From when? The movies?"  
"Yeah. Just start telling it from when you were at the movies,"  
"O.K. Well, we went to the movies, the drive in that's called The Nightly Double. Me, Dally, and Ponyboy and we sat in the seats that's for when you don't got a car,"  
I knew this from Dallas. But I felt it was important to hear the whole story from Johnny.  
"And, so, there were these girls there who left their boyfriends and uh," Here he glanced fearfully at Dallas but continued, "Dal started bugging 'em, like talking dirty and all that and I told him to leave the girls alone. So then he left cause he was mad at me,"  
Dallas lit a cigarette and shrugged. Ponyboy took it as a good idea and lit one as well.  
"So the girls asked us to sit up with 'em, to protect 'em and all, and we did," Johnny didn't look at me while he spoke. He mostly looked down at his sneakers or off to the side.  
"After the movie we were gonna walk the girls to Two bit's to get his car"  
"Two bit?"  
"Yeah, he showed up after Dal left. Two bit Mathews, um," Johnny struggled to remember his real name.  
"Keith," Ponyboy said helpfully and Johnny nodded.  
"Yeah, Keith. No one calls him that, though." I jotted down the name, Keith "Two bit" Mathews.  
"So we were walking and a blue mustang pulls up, it uh, the girls' boyfriends were in it," I jotted down stuff while he spoke. Blue mustang.  
"These were the socs that went looking for you later?"  
He nodded, and his face was all eyes.  
"Then, uh, the socs insult us and almost fight with Two bit but Cherry stopped 'em and the girls left with them,"  
As Johnny spoke I noticed a scar on his face from his temple to his cheek bone. It looked old, shiny. I wondered, maybe his parents had done it?  
"Then me and Ponyboy went to the vacant lot cause my parents were fighting," He said his parents were fighting very casually, like he didn't care.  
"Where was Two bit?"  
"He left," Johnny shrugged, "went to get drunk, who knows?" Ponyboy nodded and ground out his cigarette.  
"And, uh, we fell asleep and I woke up and woke up Ponyboy, told him to go home, his brothers worry about him," Johnny looked sad at this, like no one worried about him.  
"So then I said I was just gonna sleep there, my parents don't give a shit anyway," at this his eyes darkened and he looked pissed as hell.  
"Ponyboy came back not too long after and scared me to death, he was all upset cause Darry hit him," That was the part Darrel had omitted,then.  
"And then we walked to the park, that one with the fountain, and that's when the mustang showed up with the socs. They wanted to kill us cause we picked up their girls. There wasn't time to run, they came at us, five of 'em, and they shoved me to the ground and started to drown Pony in the fountain. I could hear him screaming, he was screaming for me to help him, and after they killed him they were gonna kill me," He stopped here and just looked at me with an expression somewhere between fear and defiance.  
"I had a switchblade and all I knew was that they were drowning him, they were so drunk and so mad that they would have killed him. He was getting quiet, not struggling so much. I thought maybe they'd killed him already, I wasn't sure. So I, I, went over and they held Pony in the fountain and they said stuff to me but I couldn't really understand them, I was so mad. I had the switchblade behind my back and they kept talking and laughing, they were drunk like my old man..." He trailed off and didn't seem to be telling a story anymore, he looked like he was reliving it. His eyes were glazed.  
"That kid, the one with the rings, I stepped toward him and stabbed him quick, the knife went right into his stomach. He looked surprised, real surprised. He let go of Pony and fell toward me. My knife was in his stomach and I brought it up. He opened his mouth and blood poured out and he looked scared then, he looked so scared. The others ran toward the car. I pulled my knife out and he fell where he had stood. The blood looked so dark, it looked black instead of red and it kept spreading. Blood was all over the knife and my hand."  
Ponyboy looked almost like he was going to puke, he was green. Dallas looked mad, his eyebrows knitted together. Johnny blinked and looked around at us, like he forgot we were there. 


	5. ch5

Smoking Outside  
  
Self defense. I thought we could definitely take that angle, possibly get the charge dropped to manslaughter. I wanted the glory of winning the case, my clients free men and my services sought after by all and sundry. I wanted that. But I wanted to keep this boy from the electric chair if I could.  
I glanced at my notes. Keith "Two bit" Mathews. He wasn't promising as a witness simply because he was friends with the defendants.  
"Has your friend Keith, "Two bit", ever been arrested that you know of?"  
"Lots of times," Ponyboy said.  
"He steals everything that ain't nailed down," Johnny added.  
"What about this Cherry Valence and Marcia? Think they'll testify for you?" The boys shrugged and Dallas looked skeptical.  
"O.K. Then what happened?" I looked at Johnny sharply and my tone was harsh. I wanted to get a feel for how he might do on the witness stand.  
I don't know what I expected, maybe unease or even fear. But he didn't bat an eyelash.  
"We had to leave cause the cops would be lookin' for us so we went to find Dally,"  
"Where was Dallas?"  
"At a party at Buck's."  
"Who's Buck?"  
"Buck Merril. He's Dal's rodeo partner," I jotted it down. Rodeo partner. I really wasn't in Boston anymore. A party. This could be promising.  
"Go on," I said.  
"Well, we got there and Buck answered the door and got Dal after Pony yelled at him to do it. Then Dal came down and we went upstairs with him,"  
What I was concerned with was verification of the events at the park. If Ponyboy was nearly drowned he would have been wet when they arrived at Merril's. And the people at the party, Merril himself, could testify that he was wet.  
Of course, it was late and the witnesses were more than likely drunk, a fact the prosecution would happily point out.  
"Let's discuss the victim, ah..." I glanced through my notes, "Robert Sheldon," They looked solemn, Ponyboy and Johnny leaned toward each other. Dallas looked pissed off.  
"Did you know him?"  
Ponyboy looked away and Johnny swallowed hard. They knew him.  
"How did you know him?" I figured they'd seen him, talked to him at school. Neither answered.  
"This is important. Your relationship to the victim will come up in court. How did you know him?"  
"Look, I'm gonna go outside and smoke," Johnny said, and he left. We watched him through the broken window light a cigarette and take a deep drag.  
It was hard, I understood that. But it couldn't be helped. I needed the facts.  
Dallas' expressions didn't give much clue. He had looked angry or bored since I met him. Ponyboy on the other hand was open and easy to read. He watched Johnny with worry and lit a cigarette.  
I leaned toward him and spoke in a low tone, "How did he know him?"  
Ponyboy sighed and glanced at Johnny again.  
"He was the soc that beat him up that time, gave him the scar," He pointed to his temple and traced Johnny's scar on his own face.  
"Damn near killed him," Dallas said.  
This was not good. This meant motive, it could be argued that way. Retaliation. Revenge. Such things were premeditated and as such were homicide.  
My mind ticked over the possibilities. If I could get the girls who were at the movies to corroborate their story that would be very good because they were aligned with the victim.  
I had an idea, a little glittering gem shimmering in the haze. I watched Johnny light another cigarette. I thought I had thought of a way to counter the prosecution's revenge argument and clear Johnny of all the charges. I'd be F.Lee Bailey yet, sought after legal mind D.K.Williams.  
  
Intermission  
  
"Anyone hungry?" I said. I wasn't really, but I wanted to give the boys a break, especially Johnny. It was going to get a lot harder.  
"My treat," I added.  
We went to a Dairy Queen not far from the church and Dallas and I watched in amazement as they wolfed down barbecue sandwiches and banana splits.  
"Ain't you been eatin' anything?" Dallas said around bites of a hamburger. I longed for the oyster bar in Quincy Market. They nodded but kept eating furiously.  
"I didn't tell y'all something," Dallas said, turning to Ponyboy and Johnny. I felt suddenly like an observer, not truly involved in this situation or these boys' lives.  
"The socs and us are having all out warfare all over the city. That kid you killed had plenty of friends and all over town it's soc against grease. We can't walk alone at all. I started carryin' a heater..."  
"Dally!" Ponyboy said, fear in his voice, "you kill people with heaters!"  
"Ya kill 'em with switchblades, too, don't ya, kid?" Dallas said, looking pointedly at Johnny.  
I wondered about the switchblade, the murder weopon. It didn't matter because no one was going to say Johnny didn't do it. But I was curious.  
"Where is it?" I said.  
"Where's what?" Ponyboy said.  
"The switchblade,"  
Johnny was looking down and he raised his eyes and looked at me.  
  
Deciding  
  
Back at the church and it was getting late. I had good ideas for this. I wanted them to agree to me representing them.  
"Alright. What do you say?" I said to Johnny. I suspected Dallas would have some sway with this decision. Johnny looked at Ponyboy briefly and then said,  
"I think we should go back and turn ourselves in," Dallas shook his head.  
"Are you sure that's what you want to do?"  
"Yeah I'm sure. It ain't fair to Ponyboy, Soda and Darry worryin' about him all the time,"  
Dallas didn't seem quite convinced and glanced at me.  
"I got a good chance of being let off easy," Johnny was saying, "it was self defense, Pony and Cherry can testify to that, and we got this lawyer here,"  
Ponyboy blinked, looking from Johnny to Dallas, still along for the ride.  
"O.K." Dallas said gruffly.  
Ah, sigh of relief. They were signing on with old D.K. But now that it was decided it seemed it had never been in any doubt. What other options did they have? 


	6. ch6

Self Defense Plus  
  
From what I've heard I had an idea, an insight into Johnny's character that might explain why he killed someone. And it would explain it in a way that the jury would understand.  
On the surface it makes sense. They were drowning Ponyboy and threatening to hurt Johnny. Self defense, plain and simple. But there was more than that. He killed someone with a knife, it wasn't like he shot him, one shot and bang! Dead. A knife. It isn't all that easy to kill someone with a knife.  
I thought it was an overreaction. And I thought he had overreacted to the threat of violence, overreacted enough to kill someone because he was an abused child. He had a sort of post traumatic stress disorder, I'd have to get a psychiatrist to confirm this, shouldn't be a problem.  
It was perfect. The jury would feel badly for him and it explained why he killed someone. Self defense plus. It wasn't his fault. That's what I wanted the jury to think, to know, to believe.  
But I wanted to discuss it with him, his parents and the abuse but I was a little nervous. I wasn't a counselor, psychologist, psychiatrist. I had my dealings with these things as far as clients went, had to have some working knowledge of the psyche, but it wasn't my forte, my area of expertise. That was the law.  
But I had to probe a little, see what he'd say, if he'd say anything. Some don't. Like those war veterans who won't say a word about combat and then fall apart if a car backfires.  
We were outside, out back so cops or passers by wouldn't see us. They were all smoking. They smoked a lot for kids. I'd never picked up the habit myself.  
"Johnny," I said, and he looked at me, a sideways glance.  
"Can we talk about your parents?"  
"My parents?" Defensive already.  
"Yeah, um, what are they like?"  
"Why?" How to proceed? I cleared my throat.  
"I'm your lawyer. I'm going to defend you, and it is a serious charge. You've got to trust me. I think your parents may have some bearing on this case."  
I was in over my head. I hated this, trying to get abused children or spouses to talk about the abuse. But it could save his life, it could drum up sympathy from the jury. We wanted their sympathy and empathy, not their contempt.  
He hung his head, sighed, "What do you want to know?" he said.  
"Do they hit you?"  
"My old man does,"  
"What about your mother?"  
"She just screams at me, or ignores me," He wasn't looking at me, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. At least he was talking.  
"How often does he hit you?" He shrugged.  
"Ever been in the hospital because of it?"  
He was quiet, not moving. I didn't think he'd answer anymore questions. You can only push these types of kids so far. They clam up.  
"Once," he said.  
"What happened?" He closed his eyes then opened them slowly.  
"Well, he was drunk, and I, I did something to piss him off but I can't remember what it was. He punched me and kind of shoved me and I cracked my head on the edge of this little table..."  
He was staring at the ground but Ponyboy was staring at him. Dallas was gazing coolly at me, something sinister just below the surface of that gaze.  
I thought that was all of the story we were gonna get but he continued.  
"It wouldn't stop bleeding and I kept puking and I was real dizzy, I kept seeing double. I guess my dad got scared cause he brought me to the hospital, said I got in a fight at school. It was a, they said it was a concussion,"  
This would help us. Hospitals kept records and schools did,too. I was pretty sure he didn't get into fights at school.  
I made the list in my mind. Get a psychiatrist to talk to him, get the records from the hospital and his school file, talk to teachers who have seen his black eyes and bruises.  
Now I'd have to prepare them for turning themselves in. 


	7. ch7

A Warning from Dallas  
  
"Don't," I said, "tell the cops anything."  
They nodded and looked so scared. Hell, I'd be scared ,too. It was a system, the jails, prisons, courts. I'd hate to be a little fish swept up in that huge current.  
I wavered, just a bit. Examined my motives. Winning this case could be phenomenal for my fledgling career but was it best for those boys to turn themselves in?  
Of course it was, they couldn't hide forever.  
"I want to talk to you," Dallas said, his voice low and smooth and I felt the tiny hairs on the back of my neck tingle.  
"Ponyboy and Johnny, you stay here," he said to them, and they looked at each other with identical expressions of concern.  
"By the car," Dallas said, and pointed, his voice getting rougher.  
I started to feel the way I would before exams in school, a free floating anxiety.  
"I don't think they should go back," Dallas said, leaning against my car. His weird blue eyes were boring into me. I felt pierced by his gaze and hoped any display of nerves would not be noticed.  
"I think it's the best="  
"Well, what the hell do you know?" The vehemence in his voice took me aback.  
"You don't understand how it is. He killed a fuckin' soc. Him, a low life greaser. That's how it is. We're the scum of the city and if you think you can get him off just cause his old man hits him..." He trailed off, shook his head, looked beyond me at the church.  
"I got them this hang out, this hide out, and you want them to just go back?" I had thought Dallas might hit me. He looks close to hitting people or things, but I wasn't worried now. I didn't care in a way. I wanted to hear this. I wanted to hear what the stakes were, as these kids saw it.  
"And those two fucking stuck up little soc bitches at the movies? You think they'll testify for Ponyboy and Johnny? No fucking way, man. Johnny killed her goddamn boyfriend, she'll be glad to see him hang for that little stunt,"  
Dallas lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and exhaled the smoke in a slow steady stream. Then he looked at me, right into my eyes.  
"And what is it to you? You lose this case, so fucking what? But for Johnny, he could get the electric chair for this,"  
"And Ponyboy," Dallas continued, "him and Soda could get thrown in some boys' home,"  
"Why Soda? He didn't do anything," I said this as sort of a distraction, I could see his fist just itching to connect with some part of my anatomy but also out of genuine curiosity. Soda hadn't done anything, had he?  
Dallas looked at me sharply, pitched the cigarette toward the dirt road.  
"Their parents are dead. Darry has custody," Darry, Darrel, the oldest brother. Oh boy. But already I could see the jurors melting in sympathy for him.  
My mind began to wander. Jury. Jury selection. I'd drop off these kids at the police station and then chill out at a bar, maybe call my mentor, a wizard of a lawyer out of Oklahoma City, Clyde Ellingsworth, and we could bang out a stragedy...  
And quick like a cobra Dallas reached out and circled my neck with one hand, I was pinned against the car.  
He wasn't hurting me, exactly. I was breathing faster and staring at him. I could hear my heart beating.  
"You fuck this up for them and I will fucking kill you,"  
He let me go as suddenly as he had grabbed me and I gasped, felt my neck gingerly with my fingertips. Dallas had headed back toward the church and dissappeared behind it before my breathing returned to normal. 


	8. ch8

It's Getting Late  
  
I leaned against the car, the metal cool in the fading light, fading heat. I was extremely conscious of being out of my comfort zone.  
I went to school here in Oklahoma, college, but I never adjusted. The accents, for one thing. Sort of twists the words, drawls them out. In Boston the speech is faster, almost pressured.  
And this, these kids, their dirty lives of poverty and crime. Sure, Boston has it too but it wasn't my life. I got in exactly one fight before I left Boston for Oklahoma. These kids here, they fight all the time, what did they call it? Rumbles?  
I shook my head and went toward the church. Their sanctuary. I'd had enough of this for awhile. I wasn't up for more.  
The sun set in front of the church so behind it the color simply drained from the sky.  
I glanced warily at Dallas, not so sure he wouldn't hit me yet. He was sitting on the back steps and the anger was gone. A sort of terrible patience had taken its place.  
The boys were playing cards, poker, a little pile of cigarettes between them. They were both trying to have poker faces but failing, smiling or scowling at their new cards.  
"It's getting late," I said, the words making me feel absurdly like their father. I'd heard my father say that enough. Dallas didn't look at me, didn't even move. Ponyboy looked worried, the easy distraction of the poker game falling away, the cards forgotten in his hand. Johnny looked at me, too, but calm, almost serene.  
"It's getting late. It's up to you. We can go back now or I can come and get you in the morning,"  
Dallas turned away. Ponyboy's eyes got wide and the cards fell from his grasp.  
"Now," Johnny said, his voice quiet but firm, "let's go back now,"  
  
Stream of Consciousness  
  
It was dark. A complete darkness unbroken by streetlights or house lights or stores. A couple of times I almost lost the road, I felt like I was driving in some lightless, airless void.  
Johnny's calm was cracking. He was in the front with me and I glanced at him from time to time. His breathing was slow and shallow and he had his eyes closed.  
"Hey kid, don't worry so much. They aren't going to torture you," I said lightly.  
They didn't trust the cops, I knew that. I was sure I didn't help by drilling it into them not to say anything. But that was important. I didn't want these Barney Fifes getting any sort of confession.  
The miles sped by and houses began to dot the landscape, and we passed pastures of cows and horses.  
The loaded gun they had at the church was now in the glove compartment. Dallas had wanted to leave it at the church.  
"No, Dal," Johnny had said, "some little kid might find it,"  
I wish I had unloaded it. Johnny kept fiddling with the little handle on the glove compartment.  
"Quit it," I snapped, not meaning to sound so harsh. Johnny flinched and quit playing with the handle.  
I couldn't help thinking about things. Like a stream of consciousness going out the window with the boys' cigarette smoke. They smoked like it was going to be outlawed tomorrow. Nerves. I understood.  
I thought about the cops in Boston. Irish, by and large. On the Foley side of the old Williams family tree I had a cousin or two who wore the blue uniform. There were a few bad ones, as in everything, but for the most part the Boston cops drank hard, tried to keep your kids safe, and came when you called them.  
Ponyboy and Dallas didn't like cops, that was clear. But Johnny feared them. I figured it had to do with authority. Who's the ultimate authority figure for a kid? The father. And Johnny feared his father. That fear must have bled to everything and everyone that hinted of authority.  
I thought of what Dallas had said, that I didn't understand. But he didn't understand the ideal of justice that underlies the courts. It's not ideal, of course, nothing run by men is, or could be. But I thought Dallas didn't know that concept, that he didn't realize the system works toward the ideal despite sometimes going against it. Therin the hope lies.  
I'd seen his face, his old 17 year old face with the flat eyes. He didn't have that hope. 


	9. ch9

Can I Help You?  
  
I thought Johnny had stopped breathing as we pulled into Tulsa. He sat so still.  
"Alright, remember what I said. You don't have to say anything to the cops," I turned and looked at Ponyboy. He nodded.  
"Johnny, o.k.? Don't say anything," He nodded with his eyes closed and I felt a surge of protectiveness and in that moment understood Dallas a little better.  
I pulled up to the police station. Johnny opened his eyes and looked at it.  
"Will you come with us?" Johnny said, but to me or Dallas I wasn't sure.  
"There's no real reason to="  
"Of course," Dallas said, cutting me off. Ah, what the hell? What would it hurt? I knew we wouldn't be able to stay with them for long.  
The police station had that look all police stations seemed to have at night, a silent inexorable business as usual. And I didn't want them to go in there, almost like a father would want to protect his wayward son.  
Inside there was a bench, a harsh flourescent light, and two locked bathrooms, one for men, one for women.  
A solid looking cop with iron gray hair was doing paperwork behind a tall counter. He looked up when we came in.  
"Can I help you?" he said. Ponyboy looked nervous, shifting from one tennis shoe to the other. Johnny looked too scared to speak.  
"Yes, I'm D.K. Williams, a lawyer, and my clients have come to turn themselves in," The cop raised his eyebrows and peered over the counter at Ponyboy, Johnny, and Dallas.  
Another cop walked by, he was tall and bald and recognized Dallas. He looked at him and smiled but his eyes stayed serious.  
"Dallas Winston! To what do we owe this pleasure?" The cop said. Dallas stared him down, didn't say a word.  
"Who are your clients?" The gray cop said. I motioned them to come forward and they did, the blood drained from their faces.  
"Ponyboy Curtis and Johnny Cade," The cop's eyes widened. He recognized the names. Johnny was looking at the floor, head down. Ponyboy looked right at the cop.  
He shuffled some paperwork, stood up, and came around the desk.  
"You're representing them?"  
"Yes, sir," He glanced at the boys and I saw disdain in his look, then back at me with puzzlement, wondering why I'd defend a murderer and his friend.  
"Cade, Curtis, come with me," the cop said, his tone business with a hint of mean.  
They were out of our hands. Dallas and I watched them dissappear into the flourescent inner workings of the police station.  
"Bail could be set on Curtis," the cop said to me and ignored Dallas, "but probably not Cade. Come back tomorrow,"  
I nodded. It was what I expected. The grizzled cop followed the boys and Dallas and I were alone.  
"I wonder what will happen to them." Dallas said but it wasn't a question. The statement had uncomfortable philosophical undertones and no one to answer. What would happen to any of us? 


	10. ch10

Chilling Out  
  
I sat in a little honky tonk bar and waited for Clyde Ellingsworth, my mentor. I knew he was practicing around Tulsa lately, and thank God. I really needed to see him.  
"Another," I said, cringing at my curt, harsh tone. I was having martinis, Bombay Sapphire gin, two olives. And were they hitting the spot.  
I had dropped Dallas off at the Curtis' house. I had to get away. That Dallas made me edgy as hell. Ponyboy and Johnny, they were two fairly innocent kids caught up in a mess. But that Dallas Winston, he had the air of a hardened criminal, that deadly core.  
And Ponyboy, dead parents, being raised by the brothers, stubbornly sticking by Johnny...  
I sipped my drink. I liked the juniper taste of the gin, the balance of the sweet vermouth, the way the white liquors shimmer in the glass, wrapped coolly around the olives, the strange way the gin and vermouth don't truly seem to mix.  
But Johnny, that kid, Christ. So damn tragic, the big haunted eyes, the obvious guilt and remorse. He damn near cried when he spoke about killing that kid. And his father beats him...  
It was getting to me, they were getting to me, the intenseness of the situation. I had started to feel drawn in, losing objectivity, I understood why Dallas wanted them to stay at that church...I shook my head, popped an olive into my mouth.  
"Dean," I looked up. Only Clyde called me Dean.  
Clyde was a thin, dapper man with blonde hair shot through with silver in a halo around his shiny bald head.  
"Clyde," I stood up, shook his hand.  
"What's he having?" Clyde said to the bartender.  
"Martini,"  
"Two more," The bartender got to work. Clyde regarded me with his faded hazel eyes.  
I wanted to tell him I was glad to see him but I popped the other olive into my mouth. He sat on the faded red leather stool next to me and took out his cigarette box and his engraved silver lighter, delicately plucked one of his fancy brown cigarettes from the box and lit it. I stared at the intricately scratched intertwinning "C" and "E" on the side of the lighter.  
The bartender set the drinks in front of us on little square napkins. I watched the smoke twirl away from the end of Clyde's cigarette.  
"Clyde, I've got a case," He raised his eyebrows and sipped his drink.  
"The, uh, the two kids that killed that kid in the park, you've heard of it?" He nodded. I knew he'd heard of it. He read the paper like a hawk.  
"High profile," he said, a touch of admiration in his voice. That pleased me.  
"Yeah, I just dropped those two off at the police station, I've got to go see them tomorrow, I..." Clyde was patient while I gathered my thoughts together. But I felt them flying away. I kept seeing the glazed look in Johnny's eyes when he finished telling us how he killed Robert Sheldon, and the way Ponyboy had moved slightly in front of him when I first met them. Dallas' fingers around my throat.  
"It's just, I, I spent the better part of the day with them and..." I sipped my martini, watching the olives swirl around the bottom. Clyde stubbed out his cigarette.  
"This could be a capital punishment case," Clyde said, his voice measured, patient, the voice of a teacher. I nodded, wondering if the worry was showing in my eyes.  
"Yeah," I swallowed, feeling suddenly over my head. Maybe Dallas was right and I didn't understand the politics here, didn't fully appreciate the socioeconomic split that had, oh what did Ponyboy say? I wracked my over tired, getting drunk little mind to remember. "Marked us as lousy," he had said.  
"The kid who killed the other one, Johnny Cade, he seems like the last one who'd ever kill anyone, he's so self effacing, so unassuming, and I..." I was rambling. Clyde was looking at me like I'd lost it.  
"Dean? Let me give you some advice," I looked at him, fully the student again.  
"This case is important, they all are. It is important to those involved, to these boys, to you, but you must maintain a professional distance. You can not be parent, teacher, friend to these boys. They are clients, and as such are due representation in a court of law. Such representation you will provide, to the best of your ability,"  
Clyde lit another cigarette, finished his drink. My head was clearing. I'd needed his clean perspective. I was aware of how persuasive Dallas Winston was, how forceful the pull of his personality.  
"Dean," Clyde said, turning to me, "it's all anyone can expect of you." 


	11. ch11

Deer in the Headlights  
  
I was prepared to post bail for Ponyboy despite feeling that this was crossing a boundary, not maintaining a professional distance. But I couldn't let him sit in jail.  
I'd had a hang over earlier this morning, just a slight headachy twinge that dissipated with some orange juice and coffee. I dressed in a straight forward business suit, a "visiting clients in jail" suit. Not nearly as dressy as the suits I have for trials.  
The boys were being arraigned today, not a big deal, but I thought I should be there. They'd be brought from the jail to the courthouse down the street.  
It was a bright blue autumn day, leaves skittering in the early morning wind. I picked up a small coffee from a vendor outside the courthouse. The man at the coffee cart had nicotine yellowed hair and thick yellow nails, a gin blossom nose, crazy red veins. He nodded thanks as I dropped the quarter into his hand.  
Inside the polished halls of the courthouse I saw the other arraignees with their parents, some with parole officers. Most were "hoods" or "greasers", shirt tails out, hair greased back. Most looked sullen though some, perhaps due to their nature, remained cheerful. I saw a handful of "socs", smooth faced rich kids with expensive clothes, a rich parent with them looking vaguelly embarrassed.  
"Mr. Williams," It was Ponyboy's oldest brother Darrel, his jeans and tee shirt neatly pressed, just a hint of grease in his dark brown hair. Sodapop wasn't far behind him, he had more grease in his dark gold hair and his clothes were similarly pressed.  
They looked equally worried and relieved and I could see how the high gloss of the courthouse, the pin stripe suited lawyers and judges in black flowing robes added to the Curtis' brother's unease. I glanced around for Dallas but didn't see him.  
"What's going to happen?" Darrel said, the concern deep and touching in his voice. Sodapop looked on the verge of tears. I wanted to be reassuring, put them at ease.  
"It's the arraignment today. The charges will be read, they'll state they have a lawyer and want a trial. After I'll go to the police station and see what the bail is on Ponyboy,"  
"What about Johnny?" Darrel said, his concern for Johnny just as deep. I noticed then the conspicuous absence of Johnny's parents.  
"Johnny? I don't think they'll set bail on him, the charge is too serious," Darrel nodded and Sodapop looked stricken. Darrel pulled his wallet from his back pocket.  
"This is for Pony's bail," He handed me two one hundred dollar bills.  
"No, it's alright. I've got it," I said and could hear Clyde's chime of dissapproval. Darrel pushed the money back toward me.  
"No," he said, his tone the deadly tone of an adult, a father, "take it,"  
I'd explained to them that the way it works is everyone who is being arraigned has to be there for 9 a.m. and then they call names.  
"But we're kind of lucky," They raised their eyebrows, "they usually call the names first of the kids who come from the jails,"  
We went into the courtroom, it was 10 minutes of nine. I glanced over to the seats on the side near the front that are reserved for prisoners. Empty.  
They came in together dressed in orange prison jumpsuits, their short hair neatly combed. They were handcuffed, their hands in front of them, and prodded along by two guards. One guard looked barely older than Darrel, the other as old as Clyde.  
Ponyboy scanned the courtroom and saw us, recognition filling his eyes. Johnny looked down and I couldn't see his face at all, just the short black hair. He didn't even look up when Ponyboy nudged him and whispered something.  
"Jesus Christ," Darrel said softly.  
The arraignment went as they all do and as predicted they called Ponyboy and Johnny first, Cade then Curtis. Johnny stood in front of the judge, trembling slightly, mumbling his responses, the judge scowling down at him. Ponyboy was a little shaky too but looked that judge right in the eye and responded in a high, clear school boy's voice.  
At the recess we filed out into the hall.  
"So, what now?" Darrel said.  
"Nothing. They'll go back to the police station. I'll head there shortly,"  
"When can we see them?" Sodapop said, the anxiety glistening in his eyes like a sheen of tears.  
"It's usually one day for an hour, I think it's Wednesday, I'll check,"  
"O.K. Thanks," Darrel offered his hand and I shook it, not at all surprised by the firmness of his grip.  
They left and I watched them leave, the slowness of their steps, the proud set to their shoulders.  
I was a little surprised Dallas didn't show. I supposed with his police record that it made sense he didn't want to be here.  
I found myself almost angry with Johnny's parents. Their son had been hiding from the law after killing someone, turns himself in and they don't bother to show up. If it was my son, if I had a son and he was in the same circumstances you bet I'd be here. I shook my head and glanced around for my briefcase. Nowhere in sight. Must have left it in the courtroom.  
I turned to go back when I was stopped short by a well dressed weepy woman and a stoic, well dressed man.  
"Are you D.K. Williams?" the woman said, a quiver of tears in her voice. The man, most likely her husband, stared me down.  
"Yes,"  
"Are you defending them?" She put emphasis on the last word, like she couldn't bear to say their names. So I said them for her.  
"You mean Ponyboy Curtis and Johnny Cade?" She nodded and looked as though she were sucking on a lemon.  
"Yes, I am,"  
"Well, how can you?" She looked as though she wanted to slug me, or claw at my eyes with her shapely manicured nails.  
I waited and knew exactly who she was. Robert Sheldon's mother.  
"Darling, we should go," the husband said in soft, cultured tones, his hand on her shoulder. She shook violently free and came over to me.  
"How can you? Do you know what those boys did? Those...hoodlums..." she choked off a sob and her husband's face seemed to twist in sorrow. I began to feel like a deer in the headlights of their sadness. There was nothing I could say.  
"Darling? Please? Let's go," her husband pleaded with her and succeeded in pulling her away. Tears streamed and mixed with her make up and she turned away, let her husband lead her out.  
I went into the courtroom and found my briefcase where I had been sitting. Grabbed the handle and stood up and looked straight into Dallas' pale blue eyes. He was leaning against the wall by the back door, arms folded, and had been all along. 


	12. ch12

Clouds Began to Gather  
  
I went and visited the boys at the jail. As their lawyer I can see them everyday if I need to. I tracked down witnesses, I researched legal precedents concerning being an abused child as a defense in a trial, I drank endless cups of coffee and wolfed down quick deli sandwiches, I crawled through the stacks of research books like some demented little bookworm, I used all my charm to try to convince the soc girls to please, please testify...I ran in circles all over Tulsa, through the lives and ruins left and lived by my vulnerable clients...and at the end of the day exhausted with a shot of scotch in front of a tiny black and white motel t.v. I understood why. I was petrified.  
I headed to the jail, thinking of Dallas' silent presence in the courtroom. He hadn't said anything to me and he didn't need to. The possible penalties for the charges had been read, and while Johnny stood in front of the judge, his large dark eyes fixed firmly on his sneakers, the judge said for the crime of murder in the first degree he could, "be sentenced to death in the electric chair," or maybe he said, "you may be put to death by a current of electricity, that that current be passed through your body until you are dead,"  
Because, and I knew, the prosecution viewed me as a new, green lawyer, and it's true I've never had a case before, and they feel they may be able to get the death penalty.  
I had noticed the media, t.v. cameras and journalists scribbling furiously away and wouldn't it make such wonderful drama? Johnny looked no more than 14 and even in the posture of his body and the tone of his voice you could read his guilt and his sorrow...troubled boy, just such a one the media loves and caresses and then tears apart.  
Clouds began to gather overhead as I headed to the police station, the stark shadows of the buildings and spindly sidewalk trees fading away. I felt a tenseness start in my shoulders and spread to my whole body and realized there was one thing between Johnny and that current of electricity. Me.  
Christ, how did I get myself into this? The police station was near the courthouse and I took a deep breath. I had to remain calm, could not let Johnny and Ponyboy think there was anything to worry about.  
The cops afforded me the dubious respect they seemed to hold for lawyers. At times we'll call them on the carpet, expose their shoddy police work, slip shod procedures.  
I went up to the high counter, peered over. A thin faced cop with side swept brown hair worked diligently on his paperwork.  
"Yes?" he looked up, regarded my lawyer suit and briefcase.  
"D.K. Williams, lawyer, here to see Ponyboy Curtis and Johnny Cade,"  
He nodded at me, business like, no emotion. He rose to get them, dissappeared behind the black door. When the wheels of our conference were set in motion he reappeared and motioned for me to follow.  
I followed him to a conference room, nothing more than a large jail cell with a long metal table in it's center. He left the door open while he fetched Ponyboy and Johnny. I looked at the thick metal bars, the heavy square plate that locked it.  
They were lead in, hands cuffed in front of them, Ponyboy looking around curiously and smiling slightly when he saw me. Johnny stared ahead at some fixed, invisible spot in front of him, expressionless.  
"Sit," the cop said to them, gesturing at the two metal folding chairs across from me. They sat and he left, locking the barred door behind him, locking me in. I felt something catch in my throat when I heard the tumblers click into place.  
Ponyboy was glancing around, his eyes coming to rest on my open briefcase and the papers I had removed from it. Johnny looked up, looked right at me, and I saw the many things I had been seeing in his eyes: guilt, remorse, sorrow, innocence, and something else, blame. Did he blame me for his being in jail? Being threatened with the death penalty?  
I cleared my throat, not so sure how to begin, trying to hide my growing belief in my own incompetence. What made me think I was equal to this task?  
"How are you?" I said, looking first at Ponyboy and then Johnny.  
"O.K." Ponyboy said, and he did sound more or less O.K.  
"Johnny? How are you?" He had looked down again and didn't look up when I addressed him.  
"O.K." he echoed tonelessly.  
I filled them in as best I could, explained that bail had been denied on both of them. On Johnny because, as we had suspected, the charge was too serious. On Ponyboy because he was a "flight risk". Ponyboy swallowed hard and looked at Johnny. Johnny's eyes didn't move from the spot just left of my pen he had chosen to stare at.  
"That's for now. That doesn't mean they won't set bail," I tried to soften the blow and Ponyboy smiled weakly at my attempt.  
"Yeah," he said, his voice shaking a bit around the edges. I told them that a psychologist would be coming to speak with Johnny about his parents and the abuse. He didn't even look up and I was beginning to think he had stopped listening. Better have her talk to him about depression, too.  
When I told them all I had to tell them I stood to go. I wanted to say something that would give them hope, some shining words for this dark moment of their lives. But I didn't have any words like that. I didn't know what to say. 


	13. ch13

Cherry and Marcia  
  
I'd arranged a meeting with the girls Ponyboy and Johnny had "picked up" at the drive in. Cherry Valence and Marcia.  
The meeting was at Cherry's house, a large, well kept house. When I rang the bell a maid answered.  
I was shown in and the girls were in the living room, a "parlor" I bet they called it.  
I introduced myself and the girls introduced themselves. Cherry's hair was an amazing shade of red and she seemed very self possessed. Marcia looked properly somber, but I noticed a devilish glint in her large dark eyes.  
I realized as I sat down to talk with them that I believed Dallas, they wouldn't testify for "low life east side greasers". Cherry almost looked ready to say no.  
I tried to shake it off, but Dallas' words were strong in my head. But it didn't matter. They needed these girls to testify.  
Paintings, not glassed prints but expensive paintings hung from the walls. The paint was thick on the canvas like frosting, and I could see the brush strokes. German precision clocks ticked away the nervous seconds as I fidgeted, cleared my throat, touched my briefcase as one might a talisman.  
"As you may be aware, I am representing Ponyboy Curtis and Johnny Cade and I understand you were with them at the drive in on the night in question," They nodded, Cherry's green eyes glassy and red rimmed from crying, but she wasn't crying now. Marcia bit her lower lip to stop her smile.  
"Would you be willing to testify in their behalf?" For a breathless moment we all sat in the tableau, Cherry twisting a strand of hair around her finger, Marcia smoothing the pleats of her skirt. I touched my briefcase again, comforted by the tough leather, the gold lock combination. It had been a gift from Clyde upon my graduation.  
"We will," Cherry said for both of them. Marcia nodded. I let my breath out, I hadn't been aware that I wasn't breathing.  
"Tell me what happened?"  
They did, Cherry told most of it but Marcia piped up now and again. They said the socs were drunk and looking for a fight, that Johnny had fought back in self defense.  
"Um, Mr. Williams?" Cherry said in the slow and ponderous manner of one about to reveal a terrible thing. But I was fairly certain I knew what she was going to say.  
"You know that scar on Johnny's cheek?" She traced it on her own face, as Ponyboy had. I nodded.  
"Well, Bob did that. I know he did. He beat Johnny up really bad about four months ago,"  
I didn't quite know what to do with that yet. I worried the jury would see Johnny's killing Robert as revenge for that beating.  
  
A Brief Visit at the Curtis'  
  
I headed to the Curtis house. The porch light burned, symbolically, I thought, for Ponyboy and Johnny.  
"Hi, Mr. Williams," Sodapop said. He sat on the couch, the t.v. on but he didn't seem to be watching it. There were two other boys there, one with reddish sideburns and boots, one with heavily greased dark hair and tattoos, scowling on the couch near Sodapop.  
"I met with them at the police station," I said a bit cautiously. Sodapop leaned forward in a tense posture of anticipation. The fellow with the sideburns looked at me quickly. The tattooed guy looked at Sodapop, then me.  
"Can, when can Pony come home?" Sodapop said.  
"His bail was denied,"  
"What? Why?" Sodapop had lost a bit of faith in me, I could sense it.  
"He's a flight risk," I said matter of factly.  
"Oh=" I reached in my pocket for the $200 Darrel had given me. "Here," I handed it to Sodapop. He shook his head.  
"No, Darry says keep it. He doesn't like to free load. God knows you ain't gonna get any money outta the Cades,"  
"So, uh," Sodapop said, "how are they?"  
"Ponyboy seems o.k. But Johnny, well, I don't think he's doing too well," In fact I was getting concerned about Johnny. The psychologist wouldn't be talking to him until next week.  
"Two bit, Christ! You gotta drink all our beer?" Sodapop said as the guy with the sideburns dug in the fridge.  
"Two bit? Are you Keith Mathews?" He rolled his eyes up at me from the bottom of a long swallow of beer. He nodded. I spoke to him about testifying and he agreed. I left shortly after. I was exhausted.  
  
Those Cinderblocks are Pretty Hard  
  
Next day I stopped by the police station to let the boys know that Cherry and Marcia had agreed to testify for them. I figured they could use some good news.  
The cop behind the desk looked at me funny when I asked to see my clients.  
"We had a bit of trouble with one of them," he said, the tiny beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips.  
"What do you mean?"  
"I think he broke his hand,"  
"Who? What happened?"  
"It was Cade. He punched the wall. Those cinderblocks are pretty hard. C'mon, I'll bring you to see them,"  
In the conference room I rested my hands on top of the metal table, feeling the heat leaving my palms. I looked up at the guard who was going to get them.  
"Could I see Cade first?" He nodded at me and dissappeared down the hall to get him.  
He came in, eyes down, his right hand bandaged. He sat across from me and looked up, his eyes shadowed from lack of sleep.  
"What happened?" I said, trying to maintain eye contact with him. He slid his eyes to the side, wouldn't look at me, shrugged.  
I felt a helplessness I wasn't used to, a protectiveness I didn't know what to do with.  
"Johnny, you broke your hand. What happened?" Maybe he caught the edge of desperateness in my words because he sighed and started talking, slowly and with no emotion.  
"My mother came to see me,"  
"Your mother?"  
Then the emotion came.  
"Yeah, she comes here just to tell me how much trouble I'm causing, all the trouble her and the old man had went to to raise me..." He looked away, clenched his unbroken hand into a fist. Then he continued.  
"I told that guard I didn't want to see her, but he said, 'you don't make the decisions,' " he mimicked the guard in a falsetto voice then shrugged again.  
"So I had to sit here and listen to her bitch at me and do you think she cares that I might get the electric chair? I'll bet she wishes that kid had killed me, it'd be a lot less trouble for her if I was dead," He looked at me and I didn't know what to say. What could I possibly say? 


	14. ch14

A Breather  
  
There was a little diner near my hotel. I went there for a couple of cups of coffee before I'd start my day. I used to do that in college, carve out a half hour of peace before I waded into my day.  
I admit I was shaken after meeting with Johnny. I was a bit surprised his mother went to see him at all, but his reaction to it...good god. I shook my head. That was one screwed up kid.  
I laid low the week after that meeting. Headed back to Boston for a bit. I told the boys I had business in Boston but it wasn't true. I needed a breather.  
Boston was so comforting, familiar. Like a different country from Oklahoma. I basked in the quick, impatient patterns of speech, the suicide drivers who'd just as soon hit you as slow down, the historic buildings that stretched back to before the Revolution, the beer halls with the thick slabs of oak and gleaming chrome. I visited my beloved Oyster Bar and ordered six oysters on the half shell, smothered them in horseradish and marinara and felt them slide down my throat.  
But I had to head back for my meeting with the psychologist who met with Johnny. After all, the case hinged on it.  
  
Ms. Johnson's Findings  
  
We met in the lobby of my hotel. There was a dark little bar there, usually empty or sparsely populated with big hatted out of town aunts or some toss pot drinking himself down to his last nickel.  
The psychologist, a Ms.Johnson, a tall angular woman whose beauty was marred only by a somewhat crooked nose, looked achingly professional in a gray business skirt suit. Everything was gray, from the clip in her hair to her sensible leather pumps. She was one of those women whose age I couldn't begin to guess. She could be 22. She could be 40. I had no idea.  
She slid into her seat at our small table and I offered her a drink. She accepted and ordered a dry white wine. I had a highball. She lit a long slim cigarette while we waited for our drinks.  
I had spoken to her on the phone to set everything up but had never met her. Even so she looked a bit frazzled after her meeting with Johnny.  
The drinks arrived in their timely manner and I watched her sip her pale yellow wine, light another cigarette and finger the ivory broach at her neck.  
"How was your meeting with my client?" I said, sipping my own drink.  
"Interesting," she pulled some papers from her attache case and spread them on the table in front of her. Notes.  
"He definitely suffers from post traumatic stress disorder related to child abuse. The abuse has been going on for as long as he can remember. From what he says it sounds like his parents are alcoholics. They have a violent, unhappy marriage. Seems the wife is a bit of an enabler, covering up for and covering for her husband in virtually all areas. She lies for him about being too sick to go to work, she corraborates the lies about Johnny's injuries. They say he fell down stairs or got into fights at school or on the streets on the occasions that he has had to go to the hospital. Like a lot of abused children he has been to hospitals in all the surrounding areas, different hospitals, different staff, so no one will detect the pattern,"  
I drank slowly, just to dull the razor edge of this meeting. I wanted, if I could win this case, to take Johnny away from that house, take him to Boston with me...how would Clyde think I'm doing with my boundaries now?  
"As for the abuse itself, I don't believe it's sexual, he doesn't present that way. It's mostly the father as far as the physical abuse, but both parents are verbally abusive," she sipped her wine, glanced at her notes, and I noticed glints of red in her brown hair.  
"His father hits him, sometimes with objects such as leather belts or boards of wood. When Johnny was younger his father would sometimes burn him with cigarettes, this leaves a distinctive scar and there were several on his back, back of his legs, but this stopped some years ago," I drew in a shuddery breath. Christ. It seemed like someone should have intervened somewhere along the way.  
"He has healed circular fractures in the bones of each arm. This is a type of fracture associated with abuse, it happens when the bone is twisted and broken," Her voice was smooth and calm, relating the information in a professionally sympathetic manner.  
"As far as school goes, he is and has been a C and D student, with an occassional F. He stayed back in 9th grade. He reads at the 4th grade level, performs mathematics at the 6th grade level, has problems concentrating. He is very quiet in school and this has allowed his learning disabilities to be somewhat overlooked. Attendance is poor, as is typical of abused children." I nodded, noting with dismay that I had finished my drink.  
"He suffers from major depression and he is suicidal. You are aware that his mother had come to see him and the visit so upset him that he punched the wall of his cell, breaking his hand. This is a classic example of turning his anger inward. When he lashes out, it is at himself, usually. I have advised the guards to put him on suicide watch. He has mentioned suicide on several occasions and has admitted to attempting it twice," I was surprised. It made sense but it surprised me nonetheless.  
"When I met with him his affect was flat, speech slow, as is consistent with depression, but he was cooperative and took the tests to the best of his ability and answered all questions truthfully and with as much detail as was requested,"  
Promising. I nodded, my mind ticking away at how to present her findings at the trial. I tried to fathom what tricks the prosecution would pull with her on cross examination.  
"I interviewed the other one, too," she said, glancing at her notes, "Ponyboy Curtis,"  
I raised my eyebrows. She didn't have to do that, but I supposed it couldn't hurt.  
"Yeah? What did you find?"  
"He is experiencing grief over his parents' unexpected death but it is grief, not depression, and has gone through the expected stages. It seems he has dealt with it surprisingly well, probably due to the continuity of the loving and supportive home provided by his older brothers,"  
I contemplated ordering another drink. Sometimes they just go down so well.  
"He is extremely bright. He scored at or above the college level in all academic areas. He was moved up a grade in elementary school, so he's in 10th grade, same as Johnny,"  
I nodded, not really surprised. He had seemed like a bright kid. The waitress came over. Ms.Johnson declined another drink but I ordered one somewhat guiltily and felt more guilt at the sweet anticipation that arose after I'd ordered it. 


	15. ch15

..........................................Such a Shadowy Place

I had my drink and swirled it in my glass, watching the play of the muted light over the liquor. I had the feeling I should ask her something or she didn't mention something.

I watched her shuffle her notes together and slip them into her case. What was it? It danced there, just out of my grasp, word on the tip of my tongue.

The drinks had dulled my usually sharp senses, and that was my own fault. Razor sharp mind dulled with wine. Helplessly I watched her finish packing up, knowing I'd be calling her later with whatever it was.

I stood as she began to go, ever the gentleman, and offered my hand.

"Ms. Johnson, thank you, I'll be in touch," She nodded and turned to leave, a skinny woman smothered in gray, the red glints in her hair a riot of color compared to that suit.

Then I had it. That boy, Robert Sheldon. Johnny had known him, Robert beat him up and gave him that scar. Dallas, Ponyboy, and Cherry all mentioned it, their faces bearing identical expressions of grave concern. And Johnny, that day at the church, wouldn't even stay in the room when I mentioned it.

This was potentially damaging, if the prosecution puts the right spin of revenge on it…

"Uh, Ms.Johnson, could you wait a moment?" She turned back to me, her face closed, wanting to go.

"Did Johnny happen to mention that the boy he killed at the park had beaten him up quite badly a few months earlier?" The closed look changed to dawning surprise and she sat back down.

"No, he didn't,"

"That's how he got that scar on his cheek," Her eyes widened, her mouth opened just a bit, she looked toward the bar and then back to me.

"Did you ask him about the scar?" I said.

"I did, I…" she looked flustered, upset something so crucial had not found its way into her extensive file.

"What did he say?"

"He, well, he shrugged and said he couldn't really remember. When children are abused, as he has been, sometimes they can't remember everything. The brain blocks the memories, it's a sort of protective mechanism," I nodded, wondering perhaps if he had blocked the incident with Robert.

The mind was such a shadowy place. Would Johnny have killed another soc if the situation had been the same? There were four others there that night but Johnny killed the one who had hurt him before. Is it Robert's fault? He was the aggressor the day he and his friends beat Johnny and also the night they tried to drown Ponyboy. He had brought it upon himself because Johnny was already so badly damaged by his parents' abuse…then again Johnny chose to do it, didn't he? Couldn't he have hurt Robert with the knife but not have killed him? But maybe Johnny's experiences of being abused by his father and, how did Dallas put it? 'Damn near killed,' by Robert, maybe Johnny didn't choose. Maybe it was kill or be killed. I squeezed my eyes shut, rubbed my temples. It only mattered what the jury would think. But what would they think?

"You'll have to talk to him about it," I said, eyes still shut, "you'll have to see if he remembers it and how he thinks it effected that night in the park," I opened my eyes. Ms. Johnson was nodding, her notes out again, jotting things in the margins.

............................................................Evil Green God

She couldn't see him right away, and it was probably for the best. I had a meeting with the D.A. in a couple of days. He wouldn't drop the charges on Johnny though. I'd attempt it but it wouldn't work. Johnny was going to trial. But Ponyboy. I should be able to get the charges reduced if not dropped entirely.

I was at a little diner, the autumn morning cool and blue. I had my coffee, liberally doused with sugar and milk. My time. My time of peace before I had to face the law books, the D.A., Ms. Johnson, Ponyboy and Johnny, the silent blame in their eyes…

I thought about money. That evil green god. This place was really divided by it. In Boston the split was more subtle, no one of means would in good conscience point out another's poverty.

The kids here, the "greasers", lived in poverty. But it seemed the "socs" blamed them for it. Beat them up for it. How was it their fault? What was that quote I heard drifting through one of my college electives? "They put out the people's eyes, then blamed them for their blindness." That fit, I thought. Was it Johnny's fault his father was an out of work drunk? Ponyboy's fault his parents died and he lived on whatever his brothers could scrape together?

But that was the thing here. Would the jury only see "Greasers", hoods, low lifes who tend to bring things upon themselves? Would they see Robert as an upstanding young man, son of prominent, important citizens, who was only sowing some wild oats and paid with his life? I shook my head. I had to make the jury see these boys, really see them, see that Robert was violent for the sake of violence, targeting the defenseless and underprivaleged of society. See that Johnny was tormented by what he had done, see the life of want and abuse that had lead to it.

I finished my coffee, headed for the library. How could I ever do this?


	16. ch16

................................................The Great State of Oklahoma 

I went into my meeting with the D.A. in a cold sweat. Leather chairs, mahogany furniture, framed degrees. I tried not to tap my foot nervously on the floor.

I cleared my throat. The D.A. looked to be about 40, looked like he ate things fried in lard for all of those years. His eyes were small, blinky, lost in the folds of his face. He lit a cigar, one of those thin ones with the white tip on the end.

"I'd like to suggest that the state drop the charges on my clients, Ponyboy Curtis and John Cade. I've reviewed the evidence and it appears that their actions were in self defense. We both know it is lawful to kill someone in self defense."

He took a long, slow puff on his cigar, leaving me to twist on the end of my proposal. My foot wanted to start a wild tap dance and I gripped my knee, hard.

"I've reviewed the evidence, too," he said, his face serene, giving me no clue as to how he was leaning.

"It's very separate. Let's take one case at a time, uh, Ponyboy Curtis," he opened a file languidly, his movements almost exsquisitly slow.

"I'm willing to drop the charges from accessory to murder in the first degree and running away down to running away,"

I felt, for just a second an elation, sweet and victorious, then I remembered Johnny. Johnny wouldn't be so lucky.

"John Cade, however," the slow closing of Ponyboy's file, the slow retrieval of Johnny's.

"I'm afraid to say I can't in good conscience reduce these charges. This young man brutally murdered someone and then ran away, evaded the law for a number of days," He closed the file and I saw the way the light caught the amber stone of his pinky ring.

"But, sir, I believe the evidence suggests that this murder was not planned, it occurred as a result of actions the murder victim took, his harrassment and assault of my clients=" The D.A. held up his hand, a slight smile on his round face.

"This occurred here in the great state of Oklahoma. I can't just let him walk, what sort of example would that be setting for the juvenile delinquents who follow him? I'll tell you what. They'd think they could get away with murder," he took another slow and luxurious puff on his ridiculously thin cigar and nearly winked at me, I swear it.

"Now he can go to trial, that's his due, that's justice," and he smiled, wide and expansive, like the cat who just swallowed the canary.

.........................................................Worse for Wear

The familiar jail, though I felt I hadn't been there for so long. The same meeting room, the same wait as a guard fetched Ponyboy and Johnny.

They came in, both looking a little worse for wear. They'd lost weight since I met them, and they didn't have that much to spare. They looked gaunt, Ponyboy was so pale he was nearly white. Johnny was expressionless, his eyes dull. I stared at the bandage on his broken hand.

"Um, I've got some good news," I began. Ponyboy's expression brightened. It was hard to say if Johnny even heard me.

"Ponyboy, they dropped the charges on you down to running away, and the bail is reasonable. You'll be able to go home today or tomorrow," He grinned, then glanced at Johnny.

"What about Johnny?"

I looked down, wanting more than anything to give the kid some good news. When I spoke my voice was quiet.

"No, the D.A. wouldn't budge,"

Ponyboy looked dissappointed but his pleasure for himself was there, too.

"It'll go to trial, but we've got a good shot, we've got the girls from the movies willing to testify..." I trailed off, afraid my words sounded weak, insubstantial. I focused on the scar on Johnny's cheek, my mind smack against that wall again. I wouldn't ask him about it, if he even remembered it. I'd leave that to Ms. Johnson.

I was going to go, to set the wheels of Ponyboy's bail in motion, when Johnny spoke, surprising me.

"Mr. Williams," he said, and lifted his dark eyes up to my face, "thanks for getting Pony off. He didn't do nothing. He didn't deserve this,"

"You're welcome," I said, finding it suddenly hard to speak.

.............................................................Trump Card

Back at my hotel I had barely settled in when the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Williams?" A girl's voice. I had no idea whose.

"Yes?"

"This is Cherry, Cherry Valence, we met the other day,"

Oh, God. She wasn't going to testify.

"I spoke with Randy, um, Randy Adderson, he is, was, Bob's best friend,"

I closed my eyes, popped an aspirin into my mouth, took a swallow of water.

"Well, anyway, he said he'd testify for Ponyboy and Johnny, that it was Bob's fault, their fault, and they only fought back in self defense,"

"Wait a minute. He was there? He was one of the socs at the park?" This couldn't be true.

"Yeah, he was, and I spoke to him. He feels really awful,"

Oh, it was good. I thought the girls were a trump card, but if I had this kid testify...I felt hopeful about things for the first time in so long I almost didn't recognize the emotion.


	17. ch17

.............................................Homecoming

I thought it would be proper to call Ponyboy's brothers, they would want to pick him up.

"Yeah?" It was the oldest, Darrel.

"Darrel? This is D.K. Williams, I've got some good news. Ponyboy's bail was set and the charges reduced to running away,"

"Yeah? When can we come pick him up?"

"The bail bondsman should be in around 11, but they tend to come in when they feel like it. He'll call you,"

"O.K. Great. Thanks, Mr. Williams, thanks so much,"

I wanted to go there for Ponyboy's homecoming but I heard Clyde's voice in my ear, in my head, talking about boundaries.

I did my job. For Ponyboy, anyway. He'd be fine. I didn't need to go involving myself anymore than I was.

............................................................Randy

Randy's house was much like Cherry's, a beautiful house filled with beautiful things.

"My parents are out...golf," he said, "so we've got the place to ourselves,"

I pulled out my yellow legal pad and watched Randy look out the window, a pensive scowl on his face.

"So what happened?" I said, pen poised.

He didn't answer right away. Just continued to stare out the window at the manicured lawn and curving driveway. I thought I saw a pair of stone lions at the base of the driveway but couldn't be sure.

"I'm not proud of this," he said, still not looking at me. He sighed, then turned to me.

"Mr. Williams, look, Bob wasn't perfect, shit, I know that. But he was a good guy, the best buddy a guy ever had," I nodded.

"His mother had a nervous breakdown," He shook his head, ran a hand distractedly through his hair.

I waited, not wanting to push him or quiz him. I remembered something from a class in college, about silence. Using silence to get a client or witness to talk to you instead of babbling at them. It was a difficult technique.

"But that kid that killed him, that was the same kid we'd nearly killed before,"

So he was there, too. I silently thanked whatever gods look out for lawyers and Cherry Valence, red haired angel.

"Yeah, um, what happened when you beat him up?"

"It was Bob's idea to go hunting for a greaser to jump. We found that kid kicking a football around a vacant lot. He was alone, and kinda small, he didn't have a chance," He shook his head and closed his eyes for longer than a blink.

"It doesn't matter that I dragged Bob off of him. I thought that kid was already dead. He was all covered with blood, he wasn't conscious, and Bob had just been pounding on him..." Randy opened his eyes and looked at me. I wondered again if Johnny remembered that. The psychologist said people can block traumatic events from their mind.

"That night we were going to take the girls to the drive in, but Bob brought some booze and Cherry flipped out, started screaming at him, and they left,"

I was jotting it down. They all said the same thing. Cherry, Marcia, Ponyboy, Johnny, and now Randy. The story was straight.

"We figured we'd pick them up later, see if they had cooled off. We drank some more, met up with three of our pals and drank even more. We were reeling drunk when we headed back to the drive in to pick up the girls,"

My eyes fell on the liquor cabinet, I could see the bottles gleaming in the dull light beneath the glass.

"But the girls weren't there. Bob's temper was always worse when he was drunk, and he punched the dashboard, cracking it. I tried to calm him down, I said we'd find them, and we did. They were walking with three greasers, uh, kids. I was angry but Bob, it was beyond anger. We nearly fought with them right there but Cherry stopped us,"

Randy lit a cigarette and offered me one. I declined. A blue glass ashtray in the shape of a star sat shining on the coffee table. I wondered if they had a maid, and if they did, if she scrubbed that ashtray. It seemed a shame to flick ashes into that clear blue surface.

"We dropped the girls off and Bob said, 'Let's find those goddamn greasers and kill them,' and I was pretty mad myself and wanted to fight them for picking up our girls," He shook his head, dragged on his cigarette, looked out the window.

"We drove around awhile, no one was around. I was about ready to give up when we saw two kids at the park that has that fountain. 'Think that's them?' I said. Bob's eyes were sort of half closed and he squinted out the window. 'Could be,' he said, 'I'm gonna kill those little sons of bitches,' And we headed over. It was them all right. And the one that killed Bob, we punched him in the stomach and shoved him to the ground. The other one had been with Cherry, all over her, you know? Bob wanted to kill him and we got him, you know, and shoved him in the fountain..."

He smashed that cigarette into the blue glass ashtray and rubbed his eyes, took a shuddery breath.

"That kid was screaming, struggling, and I guess we really did mean to kill him. He was calling for that other kid, and then he stopped, he got kind of still, and Bob kept dunking him in that fountain and the other kid came over, he had a knife, and he said, 'Let him go, asshole,' and all of a sudden I recognized him, he was that kid we beat up, and he didn't look scared like he did that time," Randy shook his head again, ran his hand through his hair, lit another cigarette.

"Bob said to him, 'what are you gonna do, huh? You low life greaser piece of shit,' And then he stabbed him, just like that, and blood gushed out of Bob's stomach and his mouth...oh God, we, I didn't know what the hell to do. We took off, just left, we just left,"

Randy buried his head in his hands, the cigarette turning to a neat roll of ash in the ashtray.

..............................................................Dallas

I was in the dark bar in the lobby of my hotel. It was dusk, but I only knew that from the faded square of light visible through the door that lead to the lobby. I was drinking, just a bit of whiskey over ice to relax. I had a meeting with Ms. Johnson in two days. I had decided to hope that Johnny couldn't remember that beating. If he couldn't remember it then he couldn't kill Bob in revenge for it.

I paid my bar bill and headed for my room, thinking I might get a good night's sleep. I laid down on top of the made bed, the lights still on, the hum of the heaters almost making me sleepy.

Someone pounded on my door. Three pounds, a fist striking the door again, again, again. I sat bolt upright, stumbled to the door, peeked out the tiny peephole. Dallas stood in the hall. I opened the door.

"Dallas," He pushed by me and came in, pacing, looking ragged.

"Look, man, I went to see Johnny today," He sat at the small table in the corner of the room. He looked ready to spring, all kinetic energy wound into a tight coil.

I felt with my tongue my back teeth for bits of food, didn't say anything.

"Williams, you gotta get him outa there. He looks like shit," and for a brief moment I thought he looked young, essentially helpless.

"I tried, the D.A.="

"Fuck the D.A. He's gonna fucking kill himself in there and you gotta get him out,"

I felt my temper rise. I gritted my teeth and tried to keep it in check, tried to stay cool.

"How much power do you think I have? What can I do? I tried to get the charges dropped or at least reduced but he won't, they won't even set bail="

"So fucking what, man? This is your fault, all your fault," Dallas' eyes glittered and were narrowed dangerously. I felt my temper slipping, like the sweaty grip on a piece of metal, it was slipping.

"It is not my fault. He's in jail because he killed someone,"

"They didn't have to go back. They're gonna find him guilty and fucking fry him in that electric chair!"

"Dallas, do you honestly think they could have stayed in that church the rest of their lives? They would get caught eventually,"

He swallowed hard and pounded his fist on the table. I flinched.

"They could have got fake I.D.'s, it's not that hard. They could have moved to a new city, a new state, had brand new lives. The cops would never fucking catch 'em. And they'd be fine," He glared at me and the anger I'd been trying to control vanished. Beneath that tough exterior I saw that he was scared. I was just a convenient target.

"It's just that Johnny, that kid..." Dallas shook his head, out of words or without words.

.........................................................Johnny

Next day I went to see Johnny. Ponyboy was home, he'd called me gleefully to thank me again.

I went to see Johnny to tell him about Randy testifying. I was worried about him, worried he would try to kill himself. I figured some good news might help, and a visitor might help.

I thought Johnny didn't see how important he was to these kids, to Ponyboy and Dallas and Ponyboy's brothers. I could see it. How protective they were of him, and worried sick over him.

He came in, glanced at me, and sat down. Eyes downcast, not moving. I told him about Randy testifying.

"That's good," he said dully.

"Hey, that is good. That really strengthens our case," I said, trying to convince him, or cheer him up.

"You're seeing Ms. Johnson tomorrow," I said. He shrugged, said, "Who's that?"

"The psychologist,"

He looked up at me, dark haunted eyes boring into me. I tried hard not to look away.

"I don't want to see her again," he said. I froze.

"What? Why? Why not?"

"I don't like to talk about all that shit," he said it so softly, looked down again. Every time I got in a conversation with him about this I felt like I was barely treading water.

"Johnny, I know, I mean I can understand you don't like to talk about it. But it's important, it's very important for this case="

"What does it have to do with it?" he said miserably. I debated what to say, how much to say. This certainly wouldn't cheer him up.

"It's, uh, look Johnny, you killed someone and, it was self defense but maybe the way your parents treat you played a part," He didn't respond, didn't move, nothing. The silence spun out.

"Johnny?" I was hesitant, afraid I was just making things worse. He looked up, looked at me with that dark haunted look, and when he spoke softly what he said sent a chill through me.

"They're gonna kill me in that electric chair, I know it, and maybe they should. Hell, I did kill that boy. I killed someone, so I should be killed," I stared at him, feeling cold.


	18. ch18

....................................................Apples Don't Fall Far 

The prosecuter was maybe mid 30's or so, hair graying perhaps a bit prematurely.

We were in his office. Well, I wouldn't exactly call it an office, more like a cubicle. He glanced at me, chuckled, sat down.

"You've got a lot on your plate with this case," he said, the smile had settled in around his eyes.

"Yep," I said.

"You know, I'd never heard of this Cade kid being in trouble before," he said, rummaging through drawers for the files I had requested. I noticed a styrofoam cup of coffee cooling on his desk next to a half eaten bagel.

"Of course," he said, slamming his desk drawer and opening up his file cabinet, "there are these Cades that live over on the east side, fight like cats and dogs, it's the booze, you know," I nodded.

"His parents," I said.

"Yeah, figures, apples don't fall far from the tree, uh? Well, what do you expect of these kids growing up in that environment?" He shook his head, still grinning, and plopped the files on his desk.

"I'll have my secretary copy these for you," he said. I thanked him and rose to go, shook his hand.

...........................................................Chronic Pain

I felt the weird queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach as I waited for Ms. Johnson to arrive for our meeting.

It was noonish, the sun falling full force through the lobby doors. I had a martini gleaming in front of me. I was drinking lunch.

She came in wearing a suit nearly identical to the one she wore the other day, but this one was closer to the color of oatmeal instead of pencil lead. I rose to greet her, offered my hand. She sat, and I thought I saw her eye my drink with dissapproval.

"So?" I said, hoping I didn't sound as anxious as I felt, "did you get to talk to him?"

She nodded a bit absently, started taking out her notes. I sighed in relief. He'd talked to her, at least.

"Does he remember it? The thing with Bob from several months ago?"

"Yes, he does,"

I took a swallow of my martini, fished out the olive and ate it. Damn it.

"Tell me," I said.

"O.k. He said he was in a vacant lot in his neighborhood and a blue mustang had pulled up. There were four "socs", he said, "socs" are the wealthier teenagers who live on the west side," Her voice was still professionally sympathetic, the tone like she's heard all of this before and heard worse. Damn it, damn it. They had even been in the blue mustang. Johnny had said they were in a blue mustang the night he killed Robert, Bob.

"He said they caught him and that one of them had a lot of rings on his hand, that the rings had cut him very badly and caused the scar on his cheek. They had threatened him, scared him, and since that incident he began carrying a six inch switchblade with him everywhere,"

I traced the circle of moisture left by my drink and motioned the waittress over so I could order another one.

"So he recognized him on that night he killed him?"

"Yes, he did. He recognized the car and the rings on Robert Sheldon's hand,"

Damn it. I looked at the bottles behind the bar, noticing the baby blue of the Bombay

Sapphire gin.

"So what do you make of this?" I said.

"I think that Johnny reacts to physical threats differently based on his history. Let me make an analogy concerning pain. The more pain one feels the more sensitive one becomes to it,"

I tried to look like I got her point, but I'm not sure I did. From the corner of my eye I saw the bartender mixing my drink.

"You might think that an individual who experiences chronic pain would become accustomed to it, able to handle more pain than those who are not always in pain," I nodded, noticing the wild red in her pinned up hair.

"To constantly be in pain makes the body more sensitive to pain, less able to handle it. For Johnny it is a similar thing, he is always under the threat of violence, from his father and from these "socs". Instead of being able to handle this well because it is always present, he can not. So what does he do? Sleeps at friends' houses and on the streets to avoid his father. Carries a lethal weapon to protect himself from the "socs". And when his friend is nearly drowned and the threat of another beating is facing him he kills the perpetrator,"

The waitress glided over with my drink, and it shimmered iridescent in the glass, the olive nestled at the bottom.

O.K. O.K. This sounded like Robert Sheldon's fault, Johnny reacted. That's how I'd play it.

.............................................................Files

The copies of the prosecutor's files were waiting for me at the front desk. I hauled them up to my room.

The coroner's report. Awful. The prosecution always uses this even if the manner of death is not in question. It drums up sympathy from the jury.

I flipped through it. Robert Alan Sheldon, 18 year old Caucasian male, brown hair, blue eyes, no distinguishing marks. He had died of a stab wound to the stomach, it had perforated the large intestine, liver, spleen, and knicked the left lung. From when Johnny brought the knife up, just as he had said. I closed my eyes. I'd heard this event described so many times but now, with the coroner's report open in front of me, I could see it.

He'd lost a lot of blood, and Johnny had described that, too. But he hadn't died right away. I wondered, then, about that period of time, when Bob was dying, when Ponyboy was still unconscious. What had Johnny been doing? Staring in disbelief at the thing he had done?

And the pictures, the glossy photos of the corpse, blueish from lack of oxygen, the gaping, bloodless stab wounds. I shuddered. How could I ever save Johnny once the jury sees this?

I glanced at the list of witnesses. David Smith? He was with the socs, claims that they had not threatened Johnny or even touched him. That the killing was malicious and unprovoked. Sarah Collins, a 15 year old who attended their high school, claims to have known Johnny carried the switchblade and planned to use it on, "the jerk with all the rings,". The truant officer, stating that Johnny's attendance at school is, "dismal," he also states that Johnny chooses to "pal around with thieves and hoodlums, criminals," A police officer, officer Lawrence, talks about the police records of Dallas Winston, Keith "Two bit" Mathews, Steven Randle, Timothy Shepard, Curly Shepard. He states, "hanging around with this element it is not surprising that Johnny Cade used such violence in a neighborhood scuffle." Neighborhood scuffle. Good lord.

I rubbed my temples. I thought I could counter most of the witnesses. His choice of friends was a bit unfortunate. Especially Dallas, but I'd argue that Johnny had never been in any trouble before this despite those he hung around with and I'd point out the clean records of the Curtis brothers. But there would be no countering the coroner's report.


	19. ch19

...............................................................Suits 

It was a strange feeling to browse in the department store for an outfit for Johnny to wear to court. I kept feeling like I was picking out a suit for a son on a special occasion, not a client in a murder trial.

I knew how I wanted him to look. Upstanding, neat, young.

The money for the court suits, he would need several, was out of my own pocket. But I had no choice.

...........................................................Preparing

I tried to prepare him, best I could. Johnny sat across from me at the metal table, head down, eyes down. He's lost weight, and he was skinny to begin with.

"The media, they're pretty interested in this case," I said. I wanted to tilt his chin up, force him to look at me. He shrugged.

"Listen, I'm telling you this because every day of this trial you will need to go from here to the courthouse. You're going to have to go right through them,"

He looked up and I noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the very noticeable scar. And he looked so young, so defenseless.

"They're ruthless. They're going to shove microphones at you and snap your picture and shout questions. Just ignore them or say, 'no comment,' o.k.?" He nodded that this was o.k.

"I've thought long and hard about having you take the stand," I said, cautiously observing him. No reaction.

"I've decided that you should," Despite the fact that they could slam him on cross examination, I could fix it on redirect. And he would be very sympathetic to the jury.

.............................................................Thoughts

The night before the trial my hotel room was a land mine, filled with self doubt and no sleep. I had that anxious excited feeling I remembered from grammer school, the way I felt before the first day of school.

I basically knew what I was going to say in the opening statement but I was thinking of something. This case was officially "The State of Oklahoma vs. John Cade" but I made a conscious decision to refer to him as Johnny. This was a very subtle psychological ploy. Johnny was the familiar form of John. Johnny was someone's child, someone's best buddy. They could easily see a "John" as a killer, but if I continuously refer to him as Johnny they will feel a bit of that familiarity that the nickname implies.

...............................................................First Day

The phone rang. I groped for it.

"This is your wake up call," the impersonal voice informed me. I bolted awake. This was it. First day. Charge time.

The media, like some demented vicious snarling machine, was gearing up. I saw the forest of microphones on long slender stalks, the press passes, the notebooks, reporters on payphones to editors. The photographers, the circle flash of their cameras raised high. How would Johnny react, walking through this tangled snarl every day?

At the police station Johnny looked tragic in the suit I'd bought for him.

"Here," I said, handing him a black plastic comb. He combed his hair quick.

"Alright, today is the opening statements in the morning, then a recess, then some witnesses, but you won't take the stand today. You're like the star witness,"

He bit his lip and looked so worried, like he was about to cry.

"When do we go?" he said, and his voice was quiet but steady.

"When the guards come and get you,"

He looked down, his eyes darting from one side of the room to the other. He looked like something was on his mind.

"I don't, I mean, do I have to go to the court in handcuffs?"

I suspected he would have to wear ankle chains as well as handcuffs but he seemed upset about this prospect.

"Probably. If you do it's just until you get into the courtroom, then they'll remove them," He nodded, not looking at me again.

...........................................................Opening Statements

When the guards came in and chained and handcuffed him he carefully showed no emotion, his face expressionless.

"It's the big day, huh?" A friendlier guard said to Johnny. He swallowed hard and nodded.

The media were like a swarm of ants, crawling all over the courthouse. As we headed to the courtroom they descended on him. I'd warned him but he still looked shocked, blinking from the flashes in his eyes, trying not to get poked in the eye with one of those long microphones.

In the courtroom they lead Johnny to the defense table and uncuffed him. He rubbed his wrists and looked around, wide dark eyes taking it all in.

The jury was lead in and they all stared at Johnny as they went by. He slouched, looked down. I nudged him and he sat up straighter.

I felt the tension building through the rising and being seated, the tedious procedures, and then it was time. I rose to give the jury my opening statement.

"A young man was killed late one night in a park. The prosecution is going to tell you this. They are going to tell you that my client, Johnny Cade, killed him with a switchblade. They are going to show you pictures of the corpse, a dead 18 year old boy who had his whole life ahead of him and they will say, "look what Johnny did," He did. That's not what this trial is about, but the prosecution will try to make you think that it is. Johnny killed Robert Sheldon and no one is saying he didn't."

"No, this trial is about why Johnny did that, reacted that way. Reacted. This is very important. You will see that Johnny didn't act, he reacted. He did not plan to kill Robert, he was put in a situation where he felt he had no other choice."

I sat, feeling shaky, queasy. Johnny gave me a little smile. It was my turn to nod at him. Then I sat back to listen to the prosecution give their opening statement.

The prosecutor rose and I stared at his gray hair, the way his stomach pushed at his dress shirt. I noticed how he had arranged his smiley face into an expression of seriousness.

"John Cade's lawyer will try to convince you that he had no choice. The facts of this case will show that John Cade had carried a six inch switchblade with him. He chose to carry that weapon. They will say he had no choice, but ladies and gentlemen, there is always a choice. He chose to carry that swithblade and he chose to use it."

"Now what choice does Bob Sheldon have? Bob Sheldon, 18 years old, a senior in high school, preparing to go to college in the fall, what choice does he have? I'll tell you. None. John Cade made sure of that, chose for him, chose death."

"He looks young, he looks innocent, and when he is on the stand he will sound vulnerable and filled with remorse. Do not be fooled. The defense will tell you he has been abused and neglected by his parents. Lots of teenagers in this city have been abused and neglected by their parents but they do not kill people with switchblades."


	20. ch20

..........................................................The Gang 

They were all there, his friends, seated together. Sodapop was jittery, nerved up, much as he was the day I met him. Darry's worry was deep in his eyes and the set of his jaw, he was completely still. Ponyboy looked around at everything, much as Johnny had and it made me think of how they were similar, two good quiet kids caught up in a mess.

The other two I didn't know so well were also there. Keith "Two bit" Matthews and Steve Randle.

And Dallas. Blond hair falling in his eyes, he'd snap his head up and flip the hair back, just to have it fall in his eyes again. He looked like he wanted to kill someone, and I was afraid it was me.

........................................................Witnesses

The prosecution's first witness, the cop who responded to the call from Robert's friends, looked young. Not much older than Robert.

There was not much I could do with him. There was no reason to cross exam him. He took the stand, swore to tell the truth, and looked terrified.

"Who is it?" Johnny whispered to me.

"The cop that found him at the park,"

"Oh,"

The prosecutor stood, addressed the witness.

"Officer Jackson, in the early morning hours of October 15th, 1966, you received a phone call?"

"Yes,"

"Could you relate the content of the call?"

"It was from Randy Adderson and he said his friend was hurt, maybe dead, at the park on the east side, the one with the fountain,"

"Did he say the manner in which his friend was hurt or killed?"

"Yes. He said he was knifed in a fight,"

"And did you go to the scene?"

"Yes,"

"Could you describe the scene you encountered?"

"Objection!" I stood. Johnny looked at me, startled. The prosecutor smiled a little smile.

"Your Honor, the question is not relevant. His answer will not shed light on whether my client intended to kill Robert Sheldon, "I said.

"Your Honor," the prosecutor said, "the scene officer Jackson encountered is very relevant. The scene illustrates the savage nature of the crime,"

"Over ruled," The judge, a slender man with receding hair, looked calm, almost bored.

"Officer Jackson, could you describe the scene at the park?" Johnny squirmed.

"When I arrived the park was empty. There was a body next to the fountain surrounded by blood. I searched for a weapon and did not find one,"

The prosecution's next witness was David Smith, a soc who was present at the park. David was not as darkly handsome as Robert had been. Rather, his face had a pinched aspect, his eyes were small, his nose pointed.

"Mr. Smith, were you present at the park when Robert Sheldon was killed?" The prosecutor said. Johnny made a noise in his throat and was staring at David.

"Yes,"

"Did John Cade kill Robert Sheldon?"

"Yes,"

"At the time when he killed him were you harming or threatening to harm Mr. Cade?"

"No,"

"Was Robert Sheldon harming or threatening to harm Mr. Cade?"

"No,"

"No further questions,"

Johnny looked drained, exhausted. With his head down he'd look up at the witnesses, the prosecutor.

The judge granted a recess, and I would begin a cross examination of this witness when court resumed.

........................................................Mrs. Sheldon

She watched the trial, I saw her stark pale face. As I headed from the courtroom she stopped me, tugged on my sleeve with her bloodless hand.

"He has all the rights, doesn't he?" she said, and I saw the tears form in her eyes.

"Who?" I wanted to pull away, get away from her. What could I do for her?

"Him," she spat it, refused, on principle, to say his name.

"What rights does my son have?" she still held my sleeve. A tear slid down her cheek.

I was speechless.

"I'll tell you. None. He took all of my son's rights away. And now you're spending all this time, all this money, defending him," Tears were streaming from her eyes and her grip was unrelenting.

"What rights does my son have! Huh! You tell me! What rights! What rights!" she was screaming and crying and I just stood there, frozen.


	21. ch21

......................................................Just Driving Around 

Time for my cross examination. I stood.

"Mr. Smith, why were you on the east side of Tulsa in the early morning hours of October 15?"

"I was with my friends. We were just driving around,"

"You were just driving around?"

"Yes,"

"Why did you stop at the park with the fountain?"

"The greas, I mean we saw the kid that picked up Bob's girl at the drive in,"

"You saw him at the park?"

"Yes,"

"And what had Robert Sheldon intended to do?"

"Objection!" The prosecutor rose.

"Speculation, your honor,"

The judge glanced at me and gave a slight nod, "sustained,"

"I'll rephrase. When you saw the boy who had picked up Mr. Sheldon's girlfriend at the drive in, what did you intend to do?"

David swallowed and looked down.

"Rough him up a little," he said.

"Did Mr. Cade, to your knowledge, pick up a girl at the movies?"

"He might have,"

"You don't know?"

"No,"

"So the intended target of the "roughing up" was the other boy and not Mr. Cade?"

"Yes,"

"I see. And at no time was he touched or threatened?"

"No,"

"He wasn't punched in the stomach?"

"No,"

"He wasn't thrown to the ground?"

"No,"

"The other boy, Ponyboy Curtis, was he touched or threatened?"

"Well..." he trailed off.

"Yes or no, Mr. Smith,"

"Yes,"

"No further questions,"

........................................................Saturday

I was in my hotel room, cup of coffee by my left hand, pen in my right. I had the list of witnesses, going over and over what I would say and how I would say it.

Looked outside, it was that almost unbearably bright October sunshine, clear blue sky. I closed my eyes, still able to see the white building outside against my closed lids.

'Please God let me save him,' I mouthed the words and saw Johnny's face, so drawn and serious.

"Damn it!" Saturdays were the worst, when all the fears came home to roost. I shoved all the papers off the desk and they fluttered, flew sideways like sinking planes, the coffee spilled, running in black streams to the floor. Phone rang. The jarring sound seemed to compliment the chaos I had created. I ran a hand through my hair, closed my eyes, and answered the phone.

"Will you accept a collect call from the Tulsa Jail?" The cool, impersonal voice of an operator. I could see her in her cat's eye glasses, twirling gum around her finger.

"Yes,"

I was almost not breathing. Why was the Tulsa Jail calling me? There was only one reason I could think of. My client had killed himself.

"Hi, Mr. Williams?" I began to breathe. It was unmistakably Johnny.

"Yeah?"

"Hey, uh, do you think you could come down here? There's, well, I think we should talk,"

"Alright,"

I headed over, not sure what to expect. I had trouble predicting Johnny.

I walked over because it was a nice day and, the truth be told, I was somewhat of a celebrity here now. This trial was being followed very closely. The rich wanted Johnny to hang for what he did to that "poor Sheldon boy", the poor felt it was self defense and marveled at how early those who have start to hassle those who don't. Teenagers were interested because it involved teenagers.

There were even "groupies", young girls who came to the courtroom after school swearing they were "in love" with Johnny.

"He had to do it!" they'd say, forgiving him all his sins, looking at him with glazed, dreamy eyes. Clutching newspaper photos of him to their chests.

It was in the paper today. "Updates of the Cade trial", "Teenage boy on trial for his life", "Juvenile delinquent faces death", all articles inevitably accompanied by a picture of Johnny, his tragic aspect not dimmed one bit by grainy newsprint.

I caught a glimse of two old women whispering about me behind their hands, gray heads leaning together. I tried not to smile.

At the jail Johnny sat slumped in the chair, a letter in his hand.

"This girl wants to marry me," he said with a wry smile. He let the letter fall from his hand, it wasn't important to him.

He still looked like shit, dark circles under his eyes, that hollow look. I wondered why he had called me here but I didn't want to push him.

"O.K., look, I don't think this is a good idea," he said. I had no idea what he was talking about.

"What?"

"This, this, this whole thing!"

"What whole thing?"

He sighed, picked up the letter and fiddled with the corner.

"This whole defense you have planned. It was my parents' fault, it was the socs' fault. Well, it wasn't. It wasn't their fault! It was mine. I did it. Don't you get that? I fucking did it, and it was self defense and they were killing Pony but I did it. I killed that kid,"

It was quite a speech. Not since that first day I met him have I heard him say so much at once.

"We could play it straight self defense," I said slowly, measuring my words. He wasn't looking at me.

"We could do that but I think, things don't happen in a vacuum, it wasn't an isolated incident. There were other factors, and those factors should be taken into account and presented to the jury,"

I looked at him, hoping for some eye contact, a nod, anything. He stared at the table, unreachable. And I felt like I was talking in a vacuum, my words swirling away. Maybe he was right, maybe...

It was easy to doubt myself, to doubt the course that once seemed so shining and true, so sure fire. Nothing was sure fire.

I looked at him, that dark head, eyes downcast, fingernails all bitten ragged. I wanted so much to protect him, to save him. I just didn't know how anymore.


	22. ch22

....................................................Sarah Collins 

Bright day followed bright day, crisp fall weather. The media was in a frenzy and Johnny seemed to notice them in a daze. He would sometimes look to his friends in the courtroom, like anchoring himself.

I noticed Mrs. Sheldon, red eyed and weepy, in the same spot every single day. She narrowed her eyes and stared at us, clutching her leather purse. I don't think Johnny was aware of who she was. But I was aware.

I'd stressed over Johnny's speech. His wishes were important, it was his case, his trial. But it was also mine and I thought, 'what does he know?' He does everything based on emotion, he doesn't like the way it feels. But I went to law school, I've studied juries, case histories, the whole thing. So I decided to plough ahead, duly noting Johnny's feelings, but continuing with the planned defense.

The prosecution's final witness, Sarah Collins, could be very damaging. She sat in the witness box, a young girl of probably 15, honey colored hair up in a ponytail, white blouse with tiny buttons, a wide skirt, white bobby socks.

Johnny barely looked at her, but he barely looked at anyone, just glances now and then.

"Ms. Collins, do you know the defendant?" the prosecutor said, smiling his little smile. Sarah nodded. The judge gently reminded her to answer "yes", or "no".

"Yes,"

"Where do you know him from?"

"School,"

"You're in the same classes as Mr. Cade?"

"Yeah, yes. Some,"

"Were you aware that he carried a six inch switchblade?"

"Yes,"

I looked at Johnny, wondering if he'd react to this testimony. He'd look at Sarah for a second, then down at the table.

"How were you aware of this?"

"Everyone knew,"

"Objection!" I stood. The objection was sustained. The prosecutor was unruffled.

"How did you know?"

"Well," she looked at Johnny, almost sweetly. I wondered if she was even aware how much her testimony could hurt him.

"I knew because after he got beat up by the socs he carried that switchblade, he said he'd kill the next person who jumped him,"

I wanted to lay my head on the table and give up.

"He was beaten up by socs?"

"Yes,"

"What are 'socs'?"

Socs again. I thought they should hand out glossaries when trials involved teenagers. Sarah defined it as they all had.

I didn't look forward to my cross with her. She was tricky. But I thought I could use some of her testimony to my advantage.

"No further questions, Your Honor," the prosecutor said, and the judge called a recess.

"How are you doing?" I said softly to Johnny. I felt bad for him, never getting a break, always watched by the guards, in the courtroom or in jail. I don't know how he could stand it.

"Okay," he said in his toneless manner.

I figured I'd grab a quick lunch and a coffee at the deli, and I wanted to be out in the fall sunshine. Just that brief moment of sun felt good for my soul.

I caught Mrs. Sheldon's eye on my way out. She wore glittery jewelry, her hair swept up in some crumbling semblance of fashion, and her wet red eyes locked on mine. I looked away hurriedly.

Outside the teen girls who skipped school to catch their glimpse of Johnny as he went into the courtroom peppered me with questions.

"What's he like?"

"Did he get my letter?"

I ignored them best I could. Ordered my sandwich and coffee, tried to relax, breathe.

Back in the courtroom I noticed only Dallas was there. The others, Ponyboy, his brothers, Two bit Matthews, and the other friend, came regularly but not every day. Dallas was there, without fail, every day.

Time for the cross. Sarah Collins sat on the stand, fresh faced, bright eyed, almost enjoying her time in the spot light.

"Ms. Collins, you were aware that Johnny Cade carried a switchblade ?" I said.

"Yes,"

"And how many other boys at your school carried switchblades?"

"Objection!" The prosecutor rose and added one word, "irrelevant,"

"Your Honor," I said, "I would like to establish the culture here, that carrying this weapon was not unique to my client," It could go either way. I didn't know what the judge would rule. He thought a minute then said, "Overruled. You may proceed,"

"Ms. Collins, how many other boys at your school carried switchblades?"

"Um, I guess a lot, probably all the greasers do,"

"Could you define 'greaser'?"

"They're, um, they're the kids who are poor and put grease in their hair, they live on the east side of town,"

"Does Johnny Cade fit that description?"

"Yes,"

"You stated that he started carrying the switchblade after the 'socs' beat him up, correct?"

"Yes,"

"How did you know about this incident? Did Mr. Cade tell you about it?"

She blinked, looked at Johnny, shook her head.

"Tell me? No, he didn't have to. He was out of school a couple of days and when he came back he looked like, like, someone had tried to kill him or something,"

I took a deep breath, knowing full well I was treading dangerous water.

"What did he look like? Could you describe Johnny Cade's appearance after the 'socs' beat him up?"

It was no longer fun for her, as it shouldn't have been. I felt sympathy for her, and I could see it troubled her to remember. Johnny had closed his eyes.

"Uh, one of his eyes, the white part, it was all red. And he had this cut on his face near his temple, and uh, like, his face was all black and blue, puffy..."

"So it was after this beating that he started carrying a switchblade?"

"Yes," Johnny had opened his eyes, gazed at a spot just above Sarah's head.

"Before this incident he did not carry a switchblade or any other weapon?"

"No, not before that,"

"No further questions, your Honor,"


	23. ch23

...........................................Fatigue 

"Look, I'm tired," Johnny said. I didn't blame him, it was a long day in court. We were in the visitors' room at the jail. I'd brought him a pack of cigarettes and he smoked one with some difficulty because of the handcuffs.

"I know, but I thought I should warn you about tomorrow," He looked up at me through the smoke and he looked exhausted. Like all these days in the jail and at the trial have been so bad that he didn't need a warning about tomorrow. But tomorrow promised to be a little worse.

"They're going to show the autopsy pictures tomorrow," I said. I'd tried to get the judge to rule against showing those photos, it didn't add anything. But autopsy photos were always permitted.

I worried about his reaction. He was wracked with guilt as it was, and the autopsy photos were grisly. He'd seen Robert after he had killed him but dazed and post adrenaline and with the darkness, it wouldn't be like the glossy, stark, bloodless autopsy photos. Hearing the jury gasp. I shook my head. I didn't want him to see those ...

Those photos. Damn it. In court the next day I glanced nervously at him while the state prepared exhibit A.

Johnny looked ashen. I could hear Mrs. Sheldon crying somewhere behind us. The jury leaned forward expectantly. You could feel the chill go through the school skipping teen girls as they looked at the pictures and realized Johnny had done that to another human being.

I wasn't sure what Johnny would do, maybe shut his eyes like he did when Sarah Collins described the after effects of his beating by the socs. Maybe look down and away like he usually does. But he stared at those pictures, his expression angry. I thought I knew him well enough now to know that anger was at himself.

.......................................First Witness

My first witness. The pathologist. He was pencil thin in a dark suit. He looked accustomed to the witness stand, calm and prepared.

"You performed the autopsy on Mr. Sheldon, correct?" I said.

"That is correct,"

"And as a part of the autopsy you check the blood alcohol level of the corpse at the time of death?"

"That is also correct,"

"Could you state for the jury Mr. Sheldon's blood alcohol level at the time of his death?"

He consulted the paper he had brought with him.

"0.4,"

I knew this number might not mean anything to the jury, but when I was through with this witness, it would.

"And could you tell us what is the blood alcohol level that indicates intoxication?"

"0.08 to 0.1 indicates legal intoxication,"

"And how many drinks per hour would someone need to consume to reach a blood alcohol level of 0.08 to 0.1?"

He thought a minute, the lines of his face arranged in a thoughtful configuration.

"It varies based on gender, weight, metabolism, and the last time one has eaten but generally it takes three drinks in one hour to reach a blood alcohol level of 0.08 to 0.1,"

I glanced at the jury. They seemed to be following along.

"And how many drinks per hour did Mr. Sheldon consume to obtain a blood alcohol level of 0.4?"

"I could make an educated guess that Mr. Sheldon may have consumed five to six drinks per hour,"

"No further questions, your Honor,"

......................................Ponyboy

I had a headache. A raging skull buster. God, I was in over my head. I sat at the bar of the hotel, glancing at the muted gleam in the chrome, the twinkling of the liquor bottles behind the bar. I ordered one martini just to take the edge off, just to get all the flies going in the right direction, just to get the memory of Johnny's expression today out of my brain.

It was set before me and I didn't even have the heart to feel guilty about feeling glad the martini had arrived. I took a sip, closed my eyes to taste it better.

"Mr. Williams?" A young, anxious voice. I didn't want to open my eyes.

"Mr. Williams?" I opened my eyes and saw Ponyboy sitting on the stool beside me.

"Hello, Ponyboy," I hoped I didn't sound as tired, defeated, and unpleased to see him as I felt.

"Want a soda?" I said, sipping guiltily on my martini.

"Yeah, sure," He was staring glumly at the bottles lining the wall behind the bar.

"Those autopsy photos today," he began, sipping his pepsi, "they made Johnny look pretty guilty, huh?"

"That was the point," I said, fishing out the olive and eating it.

"It's not fair. Johnny had to do it because of the socs drowning me, and they were drunk," He stared down into his drink like it was whiskey instead of soda.

"I'm just so worried they're gonna find him guilty,"

I didn't have the energy to give him hope. He was right. It was possible they'd find him guilty.

"If Darry had never yelled at me and hit me that night none of this ever would have happened," he said.

I noticed then how he was different from Johnny. Ponyboy blamed the socs and Darry for this situation. Johnny blamed himself, owned his own actions in a way Ponyboy seemed incapable of. Funny.

"Listen, Ponyboy, I have a lot of witnesses, I've barely begun his defense. I'm confidant I can present his side in a very sympathetic manner," I finished my drink, Ponyboy finished his. He looked unconvinced.

I ordered another martini. I felt a bit unconvinced, too.


	24. ch24

.....................................Two bit

I had decided to put Keith "Two bit" Matthews on the stand but not Dallas. They'd crucify Dallas on the cross examination. He haunted me, though. Sitting in the back of the courtroom, staring at everything with his dead blue eye gaze.

Keith sat there on the stand, the humor that Ponyboy, Johnny, and Dallas had informed me was such a part of his personality twinkling in his eyes. And I noticed a nearly imperceptible easing of Johnny's tension, with his friend on the stand. I allowed myself a quick smile to acknowledge that.

"Mr. Matthews, on the night of October 14 you met up with Johnny Cade and Ponyboy Curtis at the drive in movie theater, correct?"

"Yeah, yep,"

"Could you describe what happened when you left the movie theater?"

He bit his top lip and looked up, thinking.

"Well, we left with these two soc girls they had picked up," he looked right at Johnny and I could have sworn he was about to wink at him. I doubted my wisdom of putting him on the stand. But I wanted to hammer it home to this jury again and again that Robert and his friends were drunk, and looking for a fight.

"So we were walking toward my house when a blue mustang full of socs pulls up, two of 'em hop out and start threatening us..."

"Was one of the two 'socs' who threatened you Robert Sheldon?"

"Yeah,"

"No further questions,"

............................................Kind of Backwards

I noticed in the courtroom Dallas, of course. Dallas was becoming the only constant in my life, in a strange way. The only thing I could count on. I couldn't count on my witnesses doing what I wanted, the jury seeing things the way I wanted them to. Even Johnny. Sometimes he was responsive but some days his mood was so black that I was surprised he hadn't sliced his wrists with some jagged shard of glass or metal the night before. Only Dallas, his presence like a rock in the courtroom. No wonder Johnny idolized him.

So Dallas was there but the Curtis' were not. The other kid, Steve? He wasn't there, either. Mrs. Sheldon was there and she still had daggers for Johnny.

Johnny, as I said, was in slightly better spirits owing to Two bit's presence. But I saw Johnny's mother in the courtroom, her eyes eerily similar to his. I hoped he wouldn't see her.

The prosecutor, smug smiley faced attorney, rose slowly to cross exam my witness. I felt the dread twist my stomach, I actually felt my stomach lining twist and curl in unnatural ways.

"Mr. Matthews," he began, his voice a slow honey drawl, "have you ever been arrested?"

"Objection!" I knew the objection was useless but I had to try.

"Irrelevant," I said.

"Your Honor," the prosecutor said, "I am attempting to shed light on this witness' credibility," I sighed.

"Overruled. You may proceed," the judge said.

He asked the question again.

"Yeah, a few times,"

"For what reasons?"

Keith did not look distressed by the nature of these questions, rather, he looked amused and almost proud.

"Well, let's see," he said slowly, scanning the ceiling almost as though his police record was written up there. And he began to list off reasons.

"Shoplifting, a 'course, it's sort of a talent of mine," I raised heavy eyes to him, mouthed 'cut it out.' He didn't seem to notice.

"Fighting, y'know sometimes the fuzz show. What can ya do?" He smiled good naturedly and shrugged. I wanted to strangle him.

"Breakin' the windows in the school building. I did that twice but only got busted for it once. One time Dal took the sentence," I sighed.

"Dal?" The prosecutor said with a smirk, "are you referring to Dallas Winston?" Oh, God.

"Yeah,"

"Does Mr. Cade associate with Dallas Winston?"

"Yeah,"

"Is this the same Dallas Winston who was arrested at 10 for stealing a car, arrested at 12 for robbing a house, arrested at 13, 14, 15, 16, and 17 for public brawling, assault and battery, and public drunkenness?"

"Objection," I said calmly, knowing it would do no good, "The police record of Dallas Winston has nothing whatsoever to do with my client,"

"Your Honor," the prosecutor countered in his smooth voice, "I wish to establish the type of people Mr. Cade associates with,"

"Overruled," the judge said, resting his head on his hand. Jesus Christ.

"Is this the same Dallas Winston?"

"Yeah, sure is," Two bit said, looking proud of Dallas. I glanced at Johnny. He didn't look upset about this. Probably he didn't realize how bad his friends looked to the jury. It was funny, I thought, how Johnny's life was kind of backward. These hoodlums and criminals, people most people feared, looked out for him, were his family, really. Whereas his parents, the people who were supposed to love and look out for him, didn't. They left him to fend for himself. No wonder he couldn't tell what the jury would think.


	25. ch25

.....................................Mrs. Cade

To my relief Johnny did not react to seeing his mother. He just looked at her wide eyed then looked away.

Bob's mother stood behind Johnny's mother and it was odd to see them in such close proximity. Mrs. Sheldon reached into her purse and for one dizzying moment I thought she had pulled out a gun. But it was only a black eyeglasses case.

The spectators left the courtroom, trickling out into society. Dally and Two bit said brief words of encouragement to Johnny as they left. Johnny smiled weakly at them. I shuffled my papers together, trying to delay leaving as long as possible. I was afraid one of their mother's was waiting for me.

Johnny offered his wrists to the guard who had to handcuff him before they went back to the police station. I felt myself caught up in the routine of the trial, losing sight of the fact that those 12 people on the jury could find him guilty and then recommend the death penalty.

"See you tomorrow," I said gently to him as the guard locked the cuffs tight on his wrists, tighter than he needed to. Johnny winced slightly and looked up at me.

"Yeah," he said.

I watched him go, a frail boy flanked by two guards.

I hadn't waited long enough, I realized, stepping out into the muted late afternoon light. Johnny's mother ambushed me, standing there in her salvation army second hand coat and scuffed shoes.

"You shouldn't even bother," she said, looking at me coldly.

"What?" I said.

"You shouldn't bother defending Johnny. This town will never let him get away with killing that rich boy,"

I felt puzzled by her, puzzled by her attitude and demeanor. I guess I was naïve. I didn't have much experience with people like her. My own mother was overwhelmingly supportive, would have mortgaged our home if I was ever in trouble akin to that facing Johnny.

"Anyway, I knew he'd come to a bad end," With that she walked away, and I just stared after her.

.................................Cherry & Marcia

Next day, back in court, I was actually looking forward to Cherry and Marcia's testimony, confident the prosecutor would have little rope with which to hang them. They were soft spoken upscale socs and promised to make perfect witnesses.

Marcia sat on the stand, her dark chin length hair gleaming, and smiled softly at Johnny.

"On the night in question why were you and your friend Cherry Valence at the drive in movie theater without a car?"

She looked down and then up in a dramatic way.

"Well," she said in a slow drawl, "we were there with our boyfriends but they were drinking so we left them, decided to watch the movie by ourselves,"

"Why?"

"Why? Because they were jerks when they drank, that's why,"

I noticed the prosecutor, his usual sleepy smile not on his face. He knew these girls looked good for my case.

"How did they behave when they were drinking?"

"They were violent, they'd fight with other boys, go hunting for greasers to jump,"

Then it was Cherry's turn, her hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders and she wouldn't look at Johnny.

"You were dating Robert Sheldon at the time of his death?" I said to her as gently as I could. Her eyes shimmered with tears. Johnny looked steadily at the table.

"Yes,"

"And the night at the drive in movie, it was your decision to leave Robert, correct?"

"Yes," Her voice was soft and mature somehow, like a woman's voice.

"Could you explain why you chose to do that?"

"I told him I wasn't going anywhere with him while he was drinking," she took a shuddery breath, Johnny traced invisible circles on the table top.

"He was just so different when he drank, so hot headed, so violent. He went looking for them that night, I know he did. He said he was going to kill them and he might have if Johnny hadn't, hadn't..." Now her head was in her hands and her shoulders shook with silent sobs. Johnny was staring at her with something like stricken horror. I looked at the reporters in the back of the room, they were eating it up, the vultures.


	26. ch26

.........................................Media Glare

I had to admit I liked the media attention, I liked reporters jostling each other to interview me when I emerged from the courthouse. I liked it as much as Johnny was unnerved by it. He didn't understand their fascination, but I did. He didn't understand that his trial, his life, was their entertainment.

He still got letters, dozens and dozens from girls and young women wanting to see him, wanting to marry him, wanting him to write them back.

"What do you do with the letters?" I had asked him one day during a court recess.

"Throw them away," he had said, and shrugged.

"Why?"

"Well," he said slowly, "it's not like they're really writing to me, just some idea they have of me,"

When he comes and goes to the courthouse the girls are there, and the avid trial watchers, and he ducks his head.

............................................Ponyboy's Testimony

Darrel and Sodapop watched nervously as Ponyboy made his way to the witness stand. He smiled at Johnny and Johnny gave him a wan little smile back.

His hair was still that garish blond Johnny had dyed it, but his roots were reddish brown.

"What did you do after Cherry and Marcia left with their boyfriends?"

"I went to the vacant lot with Johnny," he said, looking at me with his clear green eyes.

"And what did the two of you talk about?"

"Um, cars, and we talked about Cherry Valence a little..."

"Anything else?"

Ponyboy looked sharply at Johnny and then back at me.

"Well, Johnny said he wanted to kill himself,"

"Anything else?"

"Uh, we talked about being in the country,"

"Did Mr.Cade say he planned on killing Mr. Sheldon later that evening?"

"No,"

"So then what? You were talking in the vacant lot and...?"

"And we fell asleep. But Johnny woke me up around two in the morning and I went home,"

"Just you? Did Mr. Cade go home?"

"No,"

"Why not? That night was rather cold, wasn't it? Why would he want to stay outside?"

"Uh," Ponyboy looked around, sought out his brothers in the audience, "his parents didn't care if he came home or not,"

"O.K. So you went home and Mr. Cade stayed in the vacant lot. Then what?"

"When I went home my brother Darry was so mad cause I didn't come home on time and he, uh, he hit me. So I left. I was gonna run away,"

"Go on,"

"So I ran to the lot and woke up Johnny. I told him we were running away. But we decided just to go to the park with the fountain and cool down,"

"Did you expect to see Mr. Sheldon and his friends at this park?"

"No,"

"Why not?"

"Well, it was so late, and that park is on our side of the city,"

"Your side?"

"Yeah. The east side, the poor side. Socs had no reason to be that far east,"

"So why were they there?" I said.

"They were looking for us,"

.......................................CrossExam

"You want anything?" I said to Johnny during the recess. His forehead was nearly touching the table.

"Hey," I shook his shoulder lightly and he picked his head up. His eyes looked even bigger with all the weight he's lost.

"Huh? No. Nothing," He put his head down again, resting it on his forearm. He closed his eyes.

I headed out to pick up a coffee, shaking my head. He'd seemed pleased to see Two bit up on the stand but not Ponyboy. He's been more depressed and unresponsive than I've seen him in quite some time.

"Two creams, two sugars," I said to the man behind the counter. He wore white and a white apron, a white paper hat that covered his iron gray hair shot through with white. He handed me a styrofoam cup and I held it with two hands, feeling the warmth.

I'd snuck here, through the back door and down back alleys, needing fresh air but not the crowds of gawkers, reporters' questions, photographers' flashes.

I'd said Dallas was becoming my only constant but there was someone else as well. Mrs. Sheldon. Like Dallas she was at the courtroom everyday, sometimes with her husband, sometimes alone. Her eyes were red and wet from crying, and she'd stare at the witnesses with puzzled anger, and she'd stare at Johnny with narrowed eyes.

Back in the courtroom, Ponyboy back on the stand, it seemed all Johnny could do to keep his eyes open.

The prosecutor strutted, puffed out his chest like a peacock.

"Mr. Curtis, earlier that evening you had been talking with Miss Valence at the drive in theater, correct?"

"Yeah,"

"And you confided to her that Mr. Cade carried with him a 6 inch switchblade, is this correct?"

"Yeah,"

"And what did you say to Miss Valence on that night regarding what Mr. Cade would do if he were jumped again?"

Ponyboy looked at Johnny with a look so still, almost haunting, and he sighed, looked down at his hands.

"He'd kill the next person who jumped him,"


	27. ch27

………………………………………It's Going

This was damning. Ponyboy, clearly shaken, left the stand, made his way back to his brothers. I imagined I saw blame in the eyes of the jury. Johnny just looked straight ahead, expressionless.

I'd been getting worried about him again. He seemed vaguely suicidal. I'd asked the guards to keep an eye on him but I'd been met with brusque dismissal.

"He's fine," the guard said.

"He's not fine. He hardly eats. He's, he's…" but I couldn't express it or describe it any more. Maybe because I knew he wasn't eating because he was skin and bones but I didn't know anything else. After a day in court I'd go to my hotel bar and drink and brood about the trial. I'd left Johnny to his own devices.

I'd visit. That's it. I had to make sure my client was somewhat mentally stable. But first, one drink.

I headed to the sanctuary of my hotel bar, that strangely lit, windowless room that looks like the dead of night no matter what time you pop in to sample the waters of oblivion.

"Martini, Mr. Williams?" the bartender said as I approached. I nodded, loosened my tie and hooked a leg over the barstool.

I sipped the drink, wanting it to last. Wanting it to dull the sting of what Ponyboy said Johnny would do.

"How's the trial going?" the bartender said, running a rag along his gleaming bar.

"It's going,"

When I arrived at the police station, untouched by the martini, they told me he already had a visitor.

"He's been there a while. I'll bring you down," A young guard said, and I noticed how his gun rested against his hip.

His visitor was Ponyboy, distraught, his voice full of tears.

"I'm sorry," he was saying, reaching across the table, his head down, "they're gonna kill you cause of what I said," Johnny looked at him with calm concern, smoked a cigarette and squinted through the smoke. Then he noticed me. Ponyboy did, too, and hastily wiped his eyes.

"Hey, Mr. Williams," he said.

"Do you mind if I talk to Johnny alone?" I said.

"No, I was just leaving," and he hurried out.

"Here," I said, setting a deli sandwich in front of him.

"What's this for?" he said.

"It's for you. You need to eat something,"

"I eat," he said defensively, pushing the sandwich away.

I sat down, wishing I was at a bar instead of a jail, wishing I didn't have the trial and this kid's life hanging over my head.

"You don't look like you do," He looked at me sullenly and I was reminded of how he looked at me when I first met him.

"Look, I know it's tough, this trial, but you gotta trust me," I said this and looked at him pleadingly. His expression softened a bit but I wondered who I was trying to convince, him or me.

I felt acutely over my head many days and Ponyboy's testimony slammed into me, knocking the wind from my defense. He'd claimed Johnny premeditated the murder of someone, whoever happened to jump him next.

"I could, uh, I could get someone for you to talk to, like therapy…" It trailed off. I felt so bad for this damn kid but I had no reference for what he was going through. If I'd been abused by my parents, beaten by these socs, driven to murder, then arrested and in jail for weeks maybe I wouldn't want to eat, either. I just didn't know. I didn't know anything.

"Look, I don't know. I don't know what you're going through and I don't know how the trial's gonna turn out. But I believe I can win, at least I've got a shot. So you have to have faith, too. And if you don't you at least have to eat,"

I was done. I had nothing left to suggest.

Johnny looked me square in the eyes, something I couldn't recall him ever doing. He reached for the sandwich and took a bite.


	28. 28

………………………………………Randy

There seemed to be a different air in the courtroom with Randy on the stand. It was like crackles in the air.

Johnny's friends were all in attendance. The Curtis brothers, "Two bit", Steve Randle, and Dallas. They glared at Randy, except Ponyboy, whose expression was blank.

"On the night in question you and your friends went looking for Johnny Cade and Ponyboy Curtis?"

"Yeah. Well, the other one,too,"

"Two bit?"

"Yeah. But we found Johnny and Ponyboy at the park,"

"And you and your friends were drinking?"

"Yeah,"

"O.K.," I said. All eyes were riveted to me and Randy, like there was a spotlight. Out of the 30 or so people in the courtroom I spotted Mrs. Sheldon, her narrowed eyes shifting from Randy, to me, to the back of Johnny's head.

"O.K. So you and your friends were drunk and you went looking for these kids. What was your intent?"

Randy looked down then slowly lifted his eyes.

"To teach them a lesson, to teach them not to pick up our girls,"

"Your girls? You mean socs?"

"Yeah,"

"And you were drinking. O.K. How many of you were there in the car that night?"

"Five,"

Going through it, I wanted the jury to see it, these five against two younger kids, scared kids, in a situation where there were no options.

"Did you and your friends try to drown Ponyboy in the fountain?"

"We were dunking him in the fountain, three of us,"

"Where were the other two?"

"Over, toward the edge of the park with Johnny,"

"O.K. Then what happened?"

"We were, the other two had thrown Johnny to the ground, punched him a few times I think, and came over to the fountain. Then Ponyboy stopped struggling so much and Johnny came over with that switchblade. Bob said, 'C'mon, you dirty little greaser, worthless piece of shit,' and Johnny stabbed him,"

Silence. The whole courtroom held its breath.

………………………………………Post Court Circus

Outside, on the courtroom steps, I couldn't help but gloat a little. It looked good. His testimony really put the light of self defense on the whole incident.

I admired Randy for doing that, for standing up for the truth of what happened.

It was the typical post court circus, Johnny at the center. He looked uncomfortable in the blue suit I bought him, his black hair neatly trimmed and free of grease. The guards surrounded him, taking the brunt of the jostling reporters as they vied to get a quote from Johnny, the microphones thrust in his face. The girls, the groupies, were beyond the reporters in a halo ring of wide skirts and bobby socks, saddle shoes and swishing ponytails. They waved at Johnny and blew him kisses. With his head down he never noticed them. Beyond the girls there were the prosecutors, the court watchers, the Curtis's and their friends, Mrs.Sheldon.

Mrs. Sheldon looked like a woman mimicking life but not hitting quite the right beat. Her lipstick was off center, it ran a bit onto her teeth. One earlobe flashed a diamond stud but the other was bare.

She stumbled on heels too high for a woman her age, she stumbled through the rings of people surrounding Johnny. I felt a strange sensation, like only I could see her. Her slightly mussed hair, her wet red eyes done up obscenely with blue eye shadow and mascara. She reached in her black purse and pulled out a black object.

She held a gun in her shaking hand and pointed it at Johnny's chest.

"You killed my son," she said, or whispered, or perhaps she only mouthed the words but I still heard them, clear as day.

Her red tipped finger on the trigger, and others saw her, I heard gasps of surprise. Johnny looked up at her and his dark eyes almost dared her to do it.

"My God, she's got a gun!" A shrill voice rose above the roar in my head and I stepped in front of Johnny, protective, just as Ponyboy did when I first met them.

I stepped in front of Johnny just as she pulled the trigger and there was the sound of the gunshot, so loud, and I felt like someone punched me. Someone screamed, it went higher and higher, an opera scream, and I felt a strange warmth and a wetness, then everything went black.

Everything went black.


	29. ch29

……………………………………..Awake

I awoke without a thought in my head. It was kind of nice. I felt insulated in some sort of cotton batting, drifting in a semi twilight I saw no reason to leave.

"You're awake," a familiar voice stated. The voice was familiar but I couldn't be bothered to fit it into the puzzle of my life.

"Drink?" The voice went on. I opened my eyes with some difficulty. They felt glued shut.

In a bleary, blurred edges way I saw an extended hand curled around a plastic cup of water, ice melting near the top. At the sight of it I realized my mouth was dry.

I took a sip of the water, my throat tingling as it slid down. Then I coughed, and coughed, and coughed.

"Easy," the familiar voice chuckled a little and I lifted my eyes to his pale blue ones, obscured by white blond hair. Dallas Winston.

And then it all came back to me.

……………………………………Filling In

Dallas, cool and calm, told me how Mrs. Sheldon tried to kill Johnny but that I had gotten in the way.

"We thought she'd killed you. What with all the blood,"

I knew this, I remembered how her arm shook as she leveled the gun at Johnny's heart.

"He almost finished the job," Dallas said, blue eyes unflinching.

"What? Who? What does that mean?"

I reached for the water and Dallas brought it to my lips. I took a smaller sip this time and coughed a smaller cough.

"The night you were shot Johnny tried to kill himself," There was a sort of quiver around the cool in Dallas' voice and I saw that the events of the past few days? Weeks? Time had become a bit fluid, I was afraid.

Dallas and I sat in a drab hospital room and I thought it was afternoon, based on the half square of sky I could see through the window.

"Johnny tried…" My voice was croaky, rusty at the hinges.

"He tried. Got hold of some razor blade or a shard of glass, sliced the hell out of his wrists,"

"Both wrists?"

He nodded, and I watched him look at the window and several points on the wall.

"Where is he?" I said, each word kind of cracked and breaking.

"He's uh, he's in the, um…" My eyes widened as I listened to Dallas stammer and search for words. I'd never heard him sound so unsure.

I waited. Doubtless it would come to him.

"He's in a mental hospital for criminals," Dallas said, and looked down for a long time.

…………………………………..Clyde Ellingsworth

Dallas had been gone for awhile. I drifted on the gentle wave of the painkillers they were giving me and I thought of the mess I had made of things without guilt, just a dull curiosity.

How had it all gone so spectacularly wrong?

"Dean?"

My ears perked up and I moved my eyes in my new slow way toward the voice. My mentor stood in the doorway in all his wealthy lawyer glory and shook his head in the sad, chagrined way one might over a puppy that had piddled on the floor.

"Clyde," I croaked in as happy a tone I could muster on such short notice.

He pulled up a chair and took in all the various tubes, hoses, beeping machines, and dripping bags of fluid that were keeping me going.

"Oh, Dean,"


	30. ch30

…………………………………..Lending a Hand

Clyde looked at me with his clear teacher's eyes and rested a hand on my arm.

"I thought I'd come down to Tulsa to see you," he said in an oddly casual tone, "considering I saw you get shot on national television,"

"It was on television!" This seemed surreal, my moment of shock and pain transmitted across the country for the mild entertainment of others.

"Like Kennedy and Oswald," he said, taking out his fancy engraved cigarette holder and admiring the different ways it could reflect the light. Then he frowned and put it away.

"Dean," and now his tone was oddly serious, "I've come down here to give you a hand with the trial. I thought you might need some help after this, uh, incident,"

I nodded, considering the truth of his statement. The trial wasn't going all that well when both the lawyer and the defendant nearly managed to perish on the same day.

…………………………………………Regret

I was at the hotel, convalescing. I'd been sprung from the hospital over a week ago but the trial was on a delay due to the attempted homicide/suicide of the defense.

I sipped the soup I kept ordering from room service and thought about Mrs. Sheldon. Clyde had informed me that she was in a country club like sanitarium, tapping golf balls and taking vitamins and valiums out of tiny paper medicine cups.

I could just imagine what it was like where Johnny was.

"But she tried to kill my client," I protested to Clyde, "she almost killed me!"

Clyde shook his head, tapped the end of his cigarette and lit it.

"My dear boy," he said drolly, "I thought you understood how the world works,"

I consulted my watch, anxiously awaiting my next dose of painkillers. I had been warned upon leaving the hospital that a strict number of hours had to elapse between each dose.

There was an urgent knock at my door and muffled voices that sounded, even through the haze in my brain and all the molecules of the heavy door, familiar.

"Come in!" The doorknob rattled and the urgent knocks followed. I forgot I had locked it. I went to let them in.

"Hi, Mr. Williams," Ponyboy said, his face pallid, dark dashes beneath his eyes. Dallas was next to him, his face covered with white blond beard stubble.

"Hi," I said calmly, stepping back to let them in.

"What brings you boys here?" I said, turning my back on them and walking to the bed.

"We need you to bring us to see Johnny," Dallas said in an almost frightening tone. Ponyboy looked at me in an endearingly anxious, pleading way.

"Why? Just go visit him yourselves," I didn't feel up to visiting Johnny. I could imagine all too well how it would be.

"We can't, Mr. Williams," Ponyboy said, "they won't let anyone but his lawyer see him,"

Ah, shit. I really didn't want to go and see that fucked up kid.

They both stared at me in their different but equally needy ways, and I regretted ever coming to Tulsa, ever getting myself involved in this, this, mess. My wound gave off a nasty twinge of pain and I consulted my watch, relieved to see it was time for my next dose.

"Please, Mr. Williams?" Ponyboy said, and the stoic looked slipped from Dallas' face and I saw for just a moment the scared boy beneath. I popped two pills into my mouth and gulped back water.

"Okay, sure, yeah. Okay,"

……………………………………Johnny

The hospital Johnny was at was an odd combination of a prison and a hospital. There were bars on the windows and locks on all the doors but nurses and orderlies glided around in white, smiling placid little smiles.

Ponyboy looked around wide eyed and Dallas affected a cool that was nearly faultless.

"Who are you here to see?" a plump gray secretary said, smiling behind her wire rimmed glasses.

"Johnny Cade," I said. She looked him up in her little book and then looked back at me, her smile gone.

"I assume you are his lawyer," she said and when I nodded she looked pointedly at Ponyboy and Dallas.

"They are part of my team," I lied, and both she and I knew there was nothing she could do about it. She frowned but called up to his floor and announced our visit.

A neatly groomed orderly came to get us and he smiled. He looked to me that maybe he was two or three years older than Dallas.

"Going to visit Johnny?" he said, and shook his head.

"Yeah. Why?" Ponyboy said in a tougher voice than I'd ever heard him use.

"Oh, uh, nothing. It's just he's been here for two weeks and he hasn't said a word," This bit of information was imparted in a tone of pity and wonder and the orderly shook his head again. I saw in his eyes a grudging admiration of Johnny.

We climbed up to the fourth floor and turned down a hallway, at the end of which were a pair of double doors. The orderly dug a key from his pocket and unlocked them.

There was a glassed in nurses' station, a drab little sitting area composed of chintz couches, a pinewood coffee table, and a small T.V. A cigarette lay smoldering to ash in the ashtray on the coffee table. A blank eyed older gentleman sat leaning to the left in a wheelchair. He was dressed in a matching soft blue pajama type outfit. Another man, younger, stood staring at the T.V., a cigarette dangling from his slim fingers. He was dressed the same as the man in the wheelchair.

We followed the orderly to a hallway lined with doors, and he brought us to one door inparticular.

"Johnny! You got visitors," he smiled at us, the sunny smile of a young man with very few real problems. Ponyboy blinked after him and Dallas glared.

The door was opened about the width of a pie wedge and I pushed it open. Johnny lay on the made bed dressed as the other patients were. Both wrists were wrapped in white bandages and over these on his right wrist was the wide white hospital band, giving all the particulars of his case.

His black hair and eyes accentuated his pallor. Everyone of his fingernails was a bloody ragged mess. He stared at the wall and seemed not to have heard us at all.


	31. ch31

…………………………………The Next Dose

"Johnny? Hey, kid," Dallas had gone over to him, touched him gently on the shoulder. Johnny turned his head slowly and looked up at him.

"Hey, Dal," he said. His eyes were glassy, glazed. I noticed he wore only socks and figured they took his shoes away, the danger of the shoelaces. People have hung themselves with less.

"How they treatin' you?" Dallas' voice had lost that hard, cool edge.

"Okay," It wasn't an answer. It was Johnny's way of not complaining.

I stood in the doorway, keenly aware of my status as an observer. Ponyboy stared at the bandages on Johnny's wrists and looked scared to talk to him. I saw him look gratefully at Dally for carrying the burden.

Dally seemed to have forgotten both me and Ponyboy. All of his considerable attention was focused on Johnny.

As for Johnny, well…He sat up slowly and with some difficulty. He couldn't quite seem to focus his eyes. Dallas spoke to him soothingly and slowly, subconsciously accommodating.

A nurse took a step into the room, looked at me, Dally, and Ponyboy with mild surprise, nodded at Johnny, and left.

"Why'd she come in here?" Ponyboy said to Johnny before he remembered he was scared to talk to him. Johnny looked at the doorway and then at Ponyboy with his unfocused eyes.

"It's checks," he said, and took a deep breath before he explained, "they gotta check every 15 minutes, make sure I'm still alive,"

It was bright outside and the sun streamed through the bars on the window. My bullet wound cramped with pain and I realized I was getting close to missing my next dose.

I had stopped listening to the boys' conversation, I heard only the tones. The pain made me light headed and it was like watching a movie in a vaguely familiar foreign language, if you stop concentrating it makes no sense at all.

The pattern of bars on the floor caught my eye. It was all shadow and light, and the pain began to intensify. I felt for the wall behind me and leaned against it.

Maybe because of the haze of pain I was beginning to see things through I noticed the pull and tug of emotions on Ponyboy's face. He seemed at once scared of Johnny and sorry for him, but he also seemed to blame him. When Dally was saying something softly to Johnny I saw a hard look on Ponyboy's face. A look that took in the bars on the window, the dirt in the corners, Johnny's bandaged wrists and glassy expression, and I saw that he blamed Johnny for where he ended up.

No such hardness entered Dally's expression and I saw that he doesn't blame Johnny for anything.

Along with the pain from the bullet wound I began to get a headache, a single pulsing point of pain and at one point Johnny closed his eyes and touched his temple with two fingers, like he felt my headache, too.

A different nurse came in and I saw how devastatingly young she was, her hair as dark as Johnny's, swept up under a crisp white cap. She looked at me, Ponyboy, and Dallas in a strangely apologetic way.

She held a paper medicine cup in one hand and a glass of water in the other. She approached Johnny slowly and when he looked up at her she smiled softly.

"Here," she said, tapping the pills into his hand. He put them in his mouth and she handed him the cup of water. After he'd swallowed them he opened his mouth so she could see that he'd swallowed them. I watched Ponyboy watch Johnny do this and I saw his embarrassment for Johnny. Ponyboy looked down, kicked lightly at the floor with the toe of his sneaker.

The glazed glassy look, he was drugged. I would read later, in the hospital notes, that after he was stabilized he refused to take the pills they brought him but he was only 16, he didn't have the right to refuse treatment. For the first few days they had to strap him down and inject the drugs into him, directly into his muscle.


	32. ch32

……………………………………Last Train to Clarksville

I had my stuff packed and sat at the train station. I was outta here.

Getting shot wasn't like it was on T.V. You're better the next episode. No. The pain went on and on. The gift that kept on giving.

I'd failed. So what? I accepted it, as I accepted I'd never have full use of my arm and shoulder again, that I sucked as a lawyer. Sucked.

I left my bags at the station and went to a bar. I bet I'd make a damn good alcoholic.

"Martini," I said, realizing that I shouldn't mix my narcotic pain meds with gin and vermouth but not caring. Maybe I should just slice through my veins and arteries like Johnny did, get this sucker over with. 27 years old and throwing in the towel. I sipped my drink.

"Dean?" It was Clyde, of course. The voice of my conscience. My little Jiminy Cricket.

"What?" I said, not turning from my drink, not wanting to hear whatever it was he might say.

"I went to your hotel. They said you checked out. How come?" He took the stool next to me, motioned the bartender over with one classy finger.

"Because I checked out,"

He sighed, ordered his drink, and waved the bartender away. He elegantly lit a cigarette and puffed on it delicately.

"Yes. I know you checked out. Why?"

………………………………………Going Into It

I didn't want to go into it. I downed my drink, ordered another. Did I actually think I could save Johnny? I didn't think that kid wanted to be saved.

Going to that hospital had bothered me. I felt helplessly responsible for Johnny's drugged out stare.

"Look, what's the point? The trial's blown to smithereens, I don't even know if he's competent anymore to even stand trial, I, look, there's no point,"

The pointlessness of it seemed lost on Clyde, and he stared at me cautiously. A look I had seen just recently. I wracked what little gray matter was left of my mind. Where had I seen that look? And it came to me. That's how Ponyboy had looked at Johnny in his hospital room.

Oh, fuck a duck. Clyde's disappointment and cautious stare was more than I could take.

"Alright, Clyde. What do you want me to do?"

…………………………………….Clyde's Suggestions

He wanted me to go back to the hospital and talk some sense into Johnny, to go to the judge and respectfully request getting the trial back on track.

I explained, as gently as I could, that Johnny was actively suicidal and pumped full of drugs and had never seemed to listen to me anyway…

"Who does he listen to?" As usual Clyde cut through the bullshit to get to resolutions.

"Who does he listen to? Uh, I guess he listens to Dallas,"

"So there you go. Get Dallas to tell him what to do, then talk to the judge,"

And it was somehow out of my hands and into Clyde's. I didn't feel very capable of much anymore besides blindly following whatever instructions I got. I set out to find Dallas Winston.

…………………………The Curtis'

I found myself at the Curtis', half drunk and pumped full of narcotics and still the bullet wound pulsed and throbbed with pain.

I saw, somewhat unnervingly, that I'd become a hero to these kids, because I took the bullet meant for Johnny. I was offered the best chair, the one that faced the door that Darry usually sat in. I was brought pepsi with ice and little snacks.

Ponyboy looked up from homework at the kitchen table, his hair two inches of reddish brown and the rest the strange yellow Johnny had dyed it.

Soda and Darry both had a work weary air and I raised the glass of pepsi to my lips, the alcohol and pills making me feel nauseous, and I thought gripping the porcelain sides of a toilet bowl wouldn't be that bad right about now.

"Where's Dallas?" I said.


	33. ch33

……………………………The Rabbit Hole

They shrugged, in mutual denial of his wherabouts, and it occurred to me that Dallas was very different from these boys, less a neighborhood pal than an exotic hood, bringing tales of gang warfare and crime still essentially foreign to them.

"How's Johnny?" Soda said, his face solemn, and I looked at Ponyboy, who should have rightly answered this question. He bent his head studiously over his homework.

I sighed.

"Okay, I guess," What could I say? Johnny seemed beyond help to me.

And speak of the devil. Who sauntered in but Dallas, full of a slouchy easy cool I almost admired.

"Hey, Mr. Williams," In his detached way Dallas seemed pleased to see me, and I nodded at him, trying to shake the queasy, pukey feeling.

I put my hand to my forehead, closed my eyes, and swallowed hard.

"Dallas? We have to go see Johnny,"

Dreaded trip, Dallas driving because I was incapable of such complicated motor function.

I hated going to see Johnny. I felt such a species of pity and guilt that I didn't know what to do. And, no big surprise, he was worse.

How this was possible was beyond me. But he was. And at first we were not allowed to see him.

The secretary, gray and plump behind her cat's eye glasses, refused us. Dallas looked like he might knock her flat but I gave him a look, 'I'll handle it,'.

I stepped up to the plate, weaving bullshit and truth and legalese in such a brilliant sparkling pattern that I could actually feel the secretary going blind, and she allowed us to see him.

She called up to his floor so the orderly could escort us. It wasn't the same one as before but he was demographically similar, an untroubled young man.

He regarded us skeptically.

"You're going to see Johnny…Cade?" he said. I cursed Clyde silently and wished I'd taken that train out of Tulsa.

"Yes," I said calmly. He shrugged, and in that gesture seemed to say it was really none of his business.

The room Johnny had been in before was a double room, and he had laid on the bed closest to the door.

We passed this room now.

"Hey…uh, isn't…?" Dallas peered into that empty room. The orderly gave him an odd little smile.

"Yeah, that was his room. But not anymore," We continued to follow him, down the hall, past room after room. I felt like Alice in Wonderland. I'd fallen down a rabbit hole, and there was no way out. All I could do was go deeper.

Dallas glanced at me, like maybe I knew what to expect. I gave him a baffled, 'got me', type expression, and the orderly stopped at a blank gray door, a small square window carved into it. The window, judging by its odd opaqueness, was plastic. But if you got close enough to it you could look through it.

The orderly dug a key from his pocket and opened the door. The door was heavy and did not open easily.

"Okay. Here you go. I'll be right here if, " he added ominously, "If you need me,"

Dallas licked his lips, and I thought it was the most physical display of nervousness I'd seen him make. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for half a second, and we went in.

The room had high ceilings and cement brick walls painted a sickly light green. There was a mattress on the floor, no sheets, nothing. Johnny sat on the mattress but wasn't facing us. He leaned against the wall. Maybe he was asleep.

"Hey kid," Dallas said, his voice soft but confident. I didn't envy Dallas. On the way over here I had told him he needed to tell Johnny to snap out of it, to do whatever needed to be done so he could get out of that hospital.

"Johnny?" he said, and I heard the minute cracks in his confidence. Johnny turned around and looked at us from dull, sunken eyes.

"Dal?" he said uncertainly, like Dallas just might be a hallucination.

"Yeah, kid, it's me,"

"Dal?" he said again, sounding a bit more sure of Dallas' reality. Dallas stepped toward him and Johnny flinched slightly. I noticed his arms were bruised.

I figured what happened. Johnny didn't cooperate with medication or something and fought against them. It landed him in this isolation room.

Christ, Dallas had a tough job ahead.


	34. ch34

………………………………….One Way or the Other

I stood near the door and thought of something my mother always said, "More than you bargained for," and I've found this consistently to be true. Everything is more than I expect it to be. I remember scanning the papers, looking for a case. I never dreamed it would bring me here.

Dallas had gone over to the mattress Johnny sat on and sat down next to him. I felt like maybe I shouldn't be here, that I'd come in on the third act of these boys' lives. Who was I to them? Just a lawyer. But I couldn't look away.

Johnny and Dally were so different. Dallas' long blond hair fell toward his eyes. Johnny's short black hair lay flat except for the slight cowlick he had toward the front. Johnny was small, and his weeks of not eating enough and the suicide attempt made him look smaller still. Dallas was sharp, his eyes darting, almost cunning. Johnny was depressed, suicidal, and drugged.

"Johnny, what the hell happened?" From the almost tender way Dallas was looking at him I was surprised at the question, his rough tone.

With effort Johnny jerked his gaze to Dallas' face. The bandages on one wrist had loosened and I could see the stitches.

"Aw, Dal, I hate it here!" I was surprised at the vehemence in Johnny's voice, but I supposed it was better than the flat, expressionless way he usually said things. Was this awful place actually helping him?

"Why, Johnny?" Dallas said, not as rough as before but nowhere near gentle, as I would have asked him.

Now Johnny's eyes slid to the side and he took a deep ragged breath.

"Because! Because I have to go to groups and I have to talk to some lady about my stupid parents and the, the," there was a hitch in his voice, like he was fighting off tears, "the soc I killed, and why, they ask me why…" He put his head down on his arm, and his hair looked jet black next to the white bandage.

Dallas looked up at me then with alarm, and I saw he was scared, too. The roughness and the confidence…it was an act. I held my hands out, palms up, and looked at him with wide eyes. 'I don't know,' I mouthed the words.

Johnny was sobbing, his whole body wracked with it, and I tried to remember if I'd seen him cry before. Had I? When he first told me about killing Robert, or about his parents, had he cried? I couldn't remember.

He looked up, eyes red, breathing hard.

"What else, Johnny?" Dallas said, just short of sharp. Dallas' tone seemed to suggest he'd had enough of the bullshit.

"It's, it's this medicine, whatever it is, I can't think right, I can't move right. I hate it! I don't want it, and when I say no they, they just…they make me take it anyway,"

Johnny's head was tilted down and Dallas stared at the top of his head. I felt all but invisible.

"So is that why you're in this room? What happened?" Dallas said, and lifted Johnny's chin up so he'd look at him. The way I'd wanted to do so many times with him.

"Yeah. Just when I start to feel a little…clearer…they come around with those fucking pills, man. I couldn't take it anymore. I wasn't gonna take that shit no matter what. So I fought 'em but they, there's just so many of them and they tied me to the bed and shot that shit into me…long fucking needle…" His eyes drifted from Dallas' face, and I could tell he was seeing that needle.

"I kicked one of 'em, or something. If you do that you gotta come to this room,"

He'd calmed down a bit, wasn't crying anymore. I didn't know, it seemed to me he hadn't been all that clear when he sliced through his wrists. Seemed to me that he wasn't in the best position to judge what he needed.

But then, I didn't think they should be traumatizing him by tying him down and injecting him with the medication he refused.

He picked at the taped edges of the bandages. Dallas scratched his nails along the plastic surface of the mattress.

"Look, Johnny…" Dallas started, glancing at me, then back at his friend.

"Johnny, you gotta get outa here. You can't, you can't keep fighting them. Take the meds, talk to whoever they want you to talk to. Tell 'em you're better, or feel better, whatever, so they'll let you go,"

"You don't understand, Dal…"

"Johnny!" Now Dallas' tone was frightening, sharp. Both Johnny and I snapped to attention.

"Cut the fucking crap, Johnny! I do understand. I've been in jail before. It sucks. You can't do what you wanta do. I know about that. But you're never gonna leave here until you start doing what they want you to. Then the trial can start again, and this thing'll be ended. It'll be done,"

Johnny breathed deeply and looked almost resigned to doing what Dallas said to do.

And I realized, as Dallas and I slowly made our way out of the hospital, that Dallas hadn't told Johnny how this thing would end.

He just said it would be done, and I guessed it would be. If Johnny could pull himself together enough to leave this place, I guess it would end. One way or the other.


	35. ch35

……………………….A Cautious Optimism

The bullet wound, with the help of some heavy duty narcotics, had become bearable. The judge granted us a review in a month, and based on how Johnny was doing, the trial might resume.

I visited Johnny once a week, Wednesday, and brought various friends of his with me. I'd go to the Curtis' house Wednesday afternoon, roughly the time Ponyboy got home from school. I never knew who I'd find there, due to the irregularity of the boys' schedules. On this particular Wednesday it was just Ponyboy, sitting at the kitchen table behind a pile of schoolbooks.

"Hi, Mr. Williams," he said, just glancing at me before going back to flipping through his text books.

"Hi,"

I could tell by the intense way he was working on this assignment that he probably wouldn't come with me to see Johnny.

"Mr. Williams?"

"Yeah?" I had sat at the kitchen table with him and was reading the spines of his school books.

"Johnny's missed an awful lot of school,"

I nodded, noticed how yellow the sunlight looked coming full force through the bay window, no curtains to dull it.

"It's the least of his worries," I said. Ponyboy shrugged.

"He'll probably quit anyway,"

"Maybe,"

It staggered me, for just a moment, how badly I wanted Johnny to be found not guilty, to be able to quit school or do anything else. Because I could still drop the ball, despite Clyde's help, he could still end up in the electric chair.

"Coming today?" I said. He shook his head.

"Can't. Too much work. Tell him I said 'hi' and I'll go next week, 'kay?"

"Sure,"

"Oh, uh, Mr. Williams?"

"Yes?"

"Could you wait for Soda? He said he wants to see Johnny today, he's gonna leave work early,"

I nodded, went to get some water to wash down my pills, and sat on the couch to wait for Sodapop Curtis.

………………………….Soda

Sodapop was, as Ponyboy put it, "movie star handsome,". When he was in a room it was hard to keep your eyes off of him.

He had more energy than Ponyboy and Darry. They had a calmness, a steadiness. Soda bounced off the walls.

"Hey, Mr. Williams, thanks for waiting," He shook my hand, headed to the kitchen, ruffled Ponyboy's hair, poured a glass of milk, unbuttoned his shirt.

He drank half the glass at one gulp, shrugged out of his shirt.

"Let me take a quick shower and we'll go, alright?" Before I could answer he was in the bathroom and I heard the shower running.

…………………………A Little Better

I could tell the hospital intimidated Soda but he was trying hard not to show it.

"How is he?" he whispered to me as we followed the orderly to his room.

"He's okay. He's a little better,"

And somehow he was a little better. It was by excruciating millimeters, but he was getting better.

His back was to us and he was flipping through a book. Probably "Gone With the Wind". Ponyboy had brought it for him last week.

"Johnny?" I said. I could feel the energy coming off of Soda in waves. Johnny turned around at the sound of my voice.

He was sleeping better. The dark circles under his eyes were gone. And he was losing that drawn, pinched look.

"Hi. Hey, Soda," The pleasure in his voice at seeing Soda was apparent.

"Hey, kid, how are ya?" Soda went over and ruffled Johnny's hair, same as he did with Ponyboy.

"Okay," Johnny said softly, ducked his head, and actually smiled.


	36. ch36

……………………………..One Step Back

I'd taken to visiting Johnny twice a week, once with his friends and once by myself. I felt almost guilty, visiting him alone. But he'd sit and talk to me, his voice soft, and sometimes he'd smile a little. I couldn't believe Dallas had got through to him.

It's funny how quick you get accustomed to things. I hadn't realized how I'd gotten used to the improvement in Johnny until one day I visited and it wasn't there.

I shouldn't have been that surprised. I had talked to the nurses and psychiatrists at that hospital before, and they said to expect setbacks.

"With someone like Johnny," a middle aged salt and pepper haired nurse said, "someone who's so depressed and so young, it's going to be two steps forward and one step back,"

I was visiting alone and he was sad, I could tell. He barely spoke, mumbled softly when he did speak. It broke my heart, no matter what that nurse said.

"Johnny," I lifted his chin like Dallas had. He looked at me, hurt and angry.

"What's the matter?" I didn't think he'd tell me. He never had before. He turned his head and bit his nail, his index finger.

"My old man came to see me," He said it in a shockingly calm voice.

"Your dad came here? Really?"

Johnny's dad was almost a mythical dark figure. I'd never seen him. I doubted if many of his friends had. Though hadn't Ponyboy told me once of seeing Johnny whipped with a two by four? Or had Dallas told me?

Johnny was still chewing on his nail, his eyes kind of glazed, from the medication or remembering, it was hard to say.

"It's kinda funny," Johnny said, "how awful he can make me feel without even hitting me,"

………………………..Revisiting Ms. Johnson

He'd be okay, I thought as I steered the car out of the parking lot, straight into the setting sun. He'd seemed down, a bit upset, but nowhere near as bad as I've seen him. And he'd always have to deal with his parents, in body or spirit. His parents, and the abuse, would never fully go away.

I wondered why his parents treated him that way. A boy so obviously in need of love and affection. I mean, I didn't get it. It started bugging me so much that I called Ms. Johnson, ostentatiously to have a drink, but I planned to pick her brain. She'd be meeting me at the Curtis house, where I'd been going for supper lately.

I guess I'd been lonely, no company anywhere but with these teenagers. Although Darry wasn't a teenager, he was 20. And he came home looking like he'd worked harder than I'll ever work.

"Is it a date?" Soda said, winking. Ponyboy chuckled. Darry cleared the table but smiled ever so slightly.

"No. She's a colleague. It's kind of like a business meeting,"

"I'm sure," Soda said, falling into Ponyboy. They both laughed. Then she knocked on the door.

"She has good timing," Darry said, and Soda and Ponyboy suppressed giggles. I opened the door.

"Hello," she said, so dignified and serious, dressed in a suit skirt similar to what I'd seen her wear before.

"Hi," I introduced her to the boys and they were polite, but looked at me knowingly when she wasn't looking.

"Let's go,"

We went to a bar, and I found out her first name was Jennifer, and she'd taken to calling me D.K.

"I saw you on the news," she said, and the bullet wound gave a little throb. She raised the wine glass to her lips and sipped on the pale gold liquid.

"Oh yeah?" Her and all of Oklahoma saw me on T.V.

"I thought you were dead," she said it calm but a little twinkle in her eyes lead me to believe she was glad I wasn't.

I sipped my bourbon on the rocks, clinking the ice cubes together. The drinks were hitting me fast, I hadn't been drinking much since the accident.

"Did it hurt?" she said, and I felt almost like one of her specimens.

"No, not much," I finished off my drink, felt it burning in my stomach and into my bloodstream.

"I visited Johnny today," I said, and eyed the waitress. She had yellow hair and a tiny waist. I hoped she'd remember us.

"Oh yeah? I'd heard he attempted suicide," Again calm, just a touch of pity to her voice and eyes. Nothing shocked this woman.

"Yeah, he did," I nearly shuddered, thinking of the stitches on his wrists, how he was tied down and injected with the medication he kept refusing.

"How is he?" She looked at me carefully.

"He's, well, he seemed to be getting better but his father came to see him today,"

She nodded, sipped her drink, little tiny sips like a humming bird at a fountain.

"Why do you suppose his parents, um, act that way?"

She rolled her eyes up like she was scanning her brain for the answers, the reasons. I clinked the ice in my glass and sipped on the tiny bit of bourbon left, it was mostly water.

"Well, abuse like that, it runs in families. One or possibly both of his parents were abused as children. I'm sure his father was, most likely one of Johnny's grandparents was an alcoholic as well,"

I nodded. It made sense.

"But then, if it happened to them, wouldn't they want to treat their child better? I mean, not put their kid through the same pain they went through?"

She finished off her drink, took her time lighting a cigarette.

"Yes, that's the really sad thing. Adults who were abused as children often want that, they want that more than anything. In a way they can't help it, it's almost a conditioned response,"

It was dark in this bar, as in most, and I felt the rhythmic throb of the wound that meant I'd missed a dose of pain medication. But I did it on purpose so I could drink.

"Johnny will have to be careful," Jennifer said, "he told me he tries not to drink not because he doesn't like it but because he likes it too much. He said drinking makes him feel normal and happy,"

He'd have to be careful, alright. If he survived long enough to have to be careful. I beckoned the waitress over. My mouth was dry, suddenly. I needed another drink.


	37. ch37

…………………………..Backward Reasoning

I found myself wandering the streets of Tulsa quite late, a bit drunk and craving a pain med.

I thought Jennifer was sort of cute, in an uptight, professional manner. I thought she might be almost wild under that buttoned up exterior.

Oh what did I know?

A chill went through me and I watched the dark shadows of the leaves on the chain link fence, leaves and fence both rattling in the wind, and I heard at once the different sounds they made…a symphony.

I remembered both Ponyboy and Johnny had mentioned how cold it was that night. Ponyboy had noticed a scim of ice on the fountain in the park, and Johnny had sat shivering after he'd killed Bob, clutching the bloody knife, but shivering from cold or reaction, well, both, I supposed.

I was walking and doing that type of thinking where it's loose, different thoughts kind of bouncing off each other. I didn't really like Jennifer's explanation about Johnny's parents. They abused him because they were abused. They were alcoholics because their parents were, and Johnny would be, too, if he cared to pick it up. Fine. But what about choice? Free will? Didn't his parents, on some level, choose to treat him as they had? Choose to drink?

The wind picked up the ends of my hair, dragged a leaf across the pavement. I barely remembered leaving the bar, ushering Jennifer into a cab, kissing her fingertips, promising to see her later.

I remembered something Ponyboy had said awhile ago, that the murder, the running away, Johnny facing capital punishment, he said it was Darry's fault. 14 year old logic. Darry slapped him, hit him, causing him to run away, wake up Johnny, and set the whole terrible chain of events in motion. If Darry had been cool, left him alone, none of it would have happened.

But where does backward thinking like that stop? If Johnny's dad didn't beat the shit out of him he wouldn't have been sleeping in the lot, and therefore wouldn't have been there for Ponyboy to wake up. If Dallas hadn't started harassing the soc girls Ponyboy and Johnny may never have even talked to them. How far back can blame be placed?

My footsteps were echoing loudly, and I was acutely aware of the dull throbbing, my body protesting the missed dose of medicine.

I remembered when Johnny called me, called me, at my hotel, and wanted me to come to the jail. And he'd said, something about his parents. My head throbbed with the alcohol, with the missed dose of medication. It was right there, at the tip of my brain, that thing he had said. What was it? He'd said it wasn't his parents fault, or the socs fault. That it was his fault. He'd done it.

I sat down on the edge of the sidewalk and looked up. Why hadn't I seen it then, when he called me to the jail? My whole defense for him was the backward reasoning of a 14 year old. I'd been so focused on saving him, on culling sympathy from that jury anyway that I could, by whatever means, that I'd ignored him. Did I, did that disregard for how he felt, for what he wanted, contribute to his suicide attempt?

I held my head in my hands, shook. A dawning horror was spreading through the spaces of my body. Had I, in some way, contributed to that? After all, I'd come up with the abuse based designer defense, and I'd forced Johnny to talk about things he didn't want to talk about. When he spoke with Jennifer maybe it was like reliving it, 16 years of neglect and abuse, and maybe…

Was I saving him after all? Sure, he seemed better now, but how could he be worse? He'd been in a steady decline since I'd met him, and it stood to reason that I was the cause.

I stood up, stretched, felt cold.


	38. ch38

………………………………Johnny

I didn't know who to go see first, Clyde or Johnny. The sun streamed through my motel window, no longer was I at the posh hotel above the twilight bar.

I poured myself some coffee and looked out at the blue morning sky. Clyde, in the way of mentors, remained in many aspects unknowable to me. What would he say when I told him I was scraping my planned defense and was going with straightforward self defense? I had no idea.

So I decided to see Johnny first.

……X…….X………X

Johnny had more good days than bad days now, and I knocked softly on the door to his hospital room.

"Hey, Mr. Williams," he said.

"Hi, Johnny, um, we need to talk," I swung the door shut and sat in the white plastic chair near his bed. He raised his eyebrows but didn't say anything.

I could see he'd gained weight, and he looked like he'd made a sort of peace with himself. I felt myself struggling for the same peace. Because I wanted so badly to save him, to take him with me. I thought back to the cocky confidence I'd had when I'd first come to Tulsa, how effortless winning the case seemed like it would be. But now it was like the deep woods and the birds ate my breadcrumbs. No way out.

"Johnny, uh, I've been thinking a lot about what you've said. Well, something you said awhile ago, at the jail, remember? Anyway, it seems to me, it seems that it, maybe I should actually…"

He was giving me a puzzled look and I realized I was rambling, not saying anything. I took a deep breath and tried again.

"Okay, you know the defense I had planned, incorporating the fact that your parents abused you?"

He nodded, his eyes big and solemn.

"I think you were right. That isn't going to figure into it. It's going to be just self defense,"

And he smiled.

…………………………………Clyde

Mid afternoon. Clouds trailed across the sky behind crimson trees, and I headed toward Clyde's temporary office here in Tulsa. The office he'd rented so he could help me with the case, help I needed because left to my own devices I got myself shot and caused my client to attempt bleeding to death. Preferable to my counsel, perhaps.

"Dean," Clyde. Coffee by the right hand, cigarette in his left. Wink of jewelry in the sun, the glint of the pinkie ring, gleam of the watch.

"Hello, Clyde," A lump in my throat. A dryness in my mouth. Telling Clyde of my decision would be infinitely harder than telling Johnny. What if he tried to sway me that I was wrong? Of all those who held sway over me, Clyde was the greatest of these.

"I've decided to revise my defense strategy," I started, anxiously searching his face for clues to his thoughts.

"I've decided to go with a straight forward self defense," I was amazed at how much I felt like a child awaiting my father's approval.

"Uh huh," he said, non committal. Uh huh? What kind of answer was that? What sort of advice was that?

"Well," I said, "what do you think?"

He leveled me with his teacher's stare and after a long while, silence spinning out between us like spun glass, he spoke.

"That's fine, Dean. You do what you want. It's your case,"

……………………………..Curtis'

At the Curtis house I felt a bit better about things than I had in awhile.

"So Johnny's getting outa that hospital soon?" Ponyboy said, leaning over the arm of the couch.

"Soon. That's what they say,"

Not cured, certainly, but he was no longer suicidal. Still depressed but medicated. He was functioning. It was more than I could say for myself.


	39. ch39

……………………………….Dallas

I headed to the twilight bar at my old hotel, felt welcomed in it's shadows, caressed by the different hues of the alcohol.

I slid onto the leather bar stool, ran a shaky hand through my hair. All the choices, I couldn't decide. Martini? Screwdriver? Bourbon and water? Rum and coke? Harvey Wallbanger? Zombie? Suffering Bastard? Long Island Iced Tea? The names ran through my head, a soft deadening litany. Candy pink cosmopolitan?

Ah, fuck it.

"Martini, two olives,"

I let out a shaky sigh, watched the bartender's shiny black vest flash with the muted light, watched the gin and vermouth splash into my glass. Olives. Perfect.

I sipped, so happy to be drinking I couldn't quite be upset about the happiness, and I caught a glimpse of my haggard face in the mirror behind the bar.

It was like Johnny and I had switched places. He was more or less okay and I was fucked up, every turn a wrong turn, every decision leading to failure.

"Rum and coke," a familiar voice said next to me. I turned, saw the shock white of Dallas Winston's hair, and flinched as he slapped the money down on the bar.

"Dallas," I said, my actual level of surprise at seeing him not reflected in my voice at all.

He got his drink and headed to a table. I followed.

"Haven't seen you in awhile," I said. He nodded and drank half his drink in one long swallow. Licked his lips. Drummed his fingers on the table.

"I came here cause Darry said you'd come here," he said finally, boring into me with those weird light blue eyes. I was halfway through my own drink, watched Dallas shift in his chair, fiddle with the napkin. Whatever was wrong I was fairly certain I couldn't be of help, couldn't think why he'd sought me out.

"Look, uh, how's Johnny?" This question, always this. Dallas' blond eyebrows knitted in consternation and I got it. He thought Johnny was worse.

"He's fine, I mean, he's better…" Dallas glanced sidelong toward the doors then back to me.

"I was worried, I thought I was too hard on him. Shoot, I shouldn't have yelled at him like that. It ain't like…" He lit up a cigarette and took a deep drag. Left me to imagine the end of his sentence.

"Dallas, Johnny's better. They even said he'll be able to leave the hospital soon,"

He finished his drink and only looked mildly reassured.

………………………………..Trajectory

My trajectory had become my motel, the Curtis house, Clyde's temporary office, and the twilight bar. I traveled like a small planet this orbit. Did I imagine the growing suspicions of the Curtis brothers, in their narrowed eyes a growing belief that I couldn't save Johnny? Did I imagine a thinly veiled disapproval from Clyde, his unwillingness to voice his concerns? Perhaps. Reality had become a bit subjective. Only with Johnny did I feel I was doing the right thing. I guess that's all that mattered.

As he got better, and he did, court loomed. His eyes lost that glazed look. His voice, still quiet, lost that flatness. His parents' infrequent visits still upset him, but not as they had. He was able to handle it somewhat. He seemed to take things one day at a time, and when I visited I looked at him with awe and envy. I felt like I'd already lived the entire trial and all its myriad of possible outcomes so many times I was dizzy, and felt 127 instead of 27.


	40. ch40

…………………………….Pre Game

I felt like a runner in the starting blocks, breathing in the crisp air, waiting for the starting gun.

"You ready, Dean?" Clyde said as we walked to the courthouse. I took a deep breath, looked at the blue sky, and decided I was ready.

"It's time, Clyde. It's time,"

They'd let Johnny out of the hospital. I was no longer on narcotic pain medication but over the counter pain killers. The trial was back on track and I was trying my damnedest not to be terrified.

Inside, the marble and wood gleaming, people dressed in suits and uniforms, Clyde with a reassuring hand on my uninjured shoulder, I walked to my place.

"Hi, Johnny. You ready?"

"Yeah," He smiled slightly, and looked nice in the suit I bought for him. I'd decided to dispense with all the bells and whistles and just have Johnny testify…and let the jury decide.

I'd done all I could do. It was up to him now. And them.

"Listen. Take a deep breath. Focus on me. Just tell it like you did at the church," He nodded, solemn, his face all eyes. I was overcome with such a powerful mix of emotions that I almost couldn't breathe.

"Johnny?"

"Yeah?"

"It'll be okay. It's almost over,"

…………………………….Johnny's Testimony

He sat on the stand, having raised his right hand and swore to tell the truth. But I've discovered that he always does.

"Johnny, what happened the night you killed Robert Sheldon?" A gentle softball lob. I knew the prosecution might tear him apart, but right now it was his story. He took a deep breath as I'd instructed him, looked down for a moment, and then looked up.

"We were at the drive in movies, sittin' in those seats that are for when you don't got a car…"

I listened to his quiet voice go on and on as Ponyboy had when he came to, wet and gasping for breath on the cement near the fountain. Johnny had been dressed in the black tee shirt, jeans, and jean jacket, his long hair slick and gleaming with grease, clutching a bloody switchblade. Now he wore a dark blue suit, his short hair clean and neatly combed.

He went on and on, describing that event I knew now as though I'd lived it myself. The jury was riveted, finally hearing him speak, and maybe they saw he wasn't a low life hood but a troubled kid who never got a break. A kid for whom survival was a different thing than it was for them.

"So they shove me to the ground and hold Ponyboy down in the fountain and he's screaming for me to help him. I thought they were killing him and when they were done with him they'd come kill me. So I reached for the switchblade in my back pocket and went over to them, and they said stuff to me but I couldn't understand it, and that kid with the rings, he was laughing and drunk like my old man and I stabbed him right in the stomach,"

Now Johnny was shaking and swallowing hard and I see his eyes fill with tears. He put his head down.

"He looked so surprised and scared. I'll never forget that look. And I brought the knife up and blood poured from his mouth, like a gush, and he fell right there. And the other guys ran, they ran when I stabbed him, they all ran…"

Tears coursed down his cheeks and he wiped at them with the sleeve of his jacket.


	41. ch41

………………………….Cross Exam

The prosecutor rose, the sinister sleepy smile on his face. Johnny swallowed hard. I felt the dull pulse of a headache behind my eyes.

The jury was silent, all eyes on the prosecutor in his gray suit and dark gray tie.

"Mr. Cade, did you know who Bob Sheldon was when you first saw him on the night in question?"

"Yeah,"

"How did you know him?"

Johnny had a funny blank look on his face. The headache behind my eyes was sharp now, hammer blows to the head. I thought I might throw up.

"I, uh, he beat me up before,"

"How did you know it was him?"

"The rings,"

"Rings? He wore rings, you mean?"

"Yeah," Johnny was looking down, and I noticed his hair was getting longer, shaggy bangs reaching for his eyes.

"That scar on your cheek, how did you get it?"

Johnny touched the scar, closed his eyes for longer than a blink.

"That time Bob beat me up, his rings…"

"Okay. On that night that you killed him you had a switchblade with you, correct?"

"Yeah,"

"When did you start carrying the switchblade?"

"Around spring,"

"Why did you start carrying it?"

Johnny sighed and I noticed his friends shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Darry had a grim expression. Ponyboy looked wide eyed and scared.

"Cause I got beat up like that…"

"So you started carrying a six inch switchblade?"

"Yeah," He had been looking down but then he looked up, his dark eyes boring into the prosecutor, "so it wouldn't happen again,"

………………………….Scrambling

I shuffled through my notes, desperate for something I could use in the redirect. My head pulsed, the lights were too bright.

Aha! A note scribbled months ago. Johnny had told me once they had a blade that night, the socs had a blade.

"They were drowning Ponyboy and threatening you, right?" I said gently. He was looking down again and I felt a surge of emotions, glanced at the spectators and saw Dally, his gaze steady, and he caught my eye. He nodded to me and I nodded, ever so slightly, back.

"Right," Johnny said, his voice tired.

"Did the "socs" have a weapon?"

"Yeah. They had a blade,"

……………………………..Limbo

"C'mon, Dean, let's get a coffee," Clyde said, steering me toward the kiosk. I went through the ritual of doctoring up my coffee, cream, sugars, stir, stir. I took a sip. The caffeine had no power to help or heal.

Clyde put a hand on my shoulder, looked me straight in the eye.

"It's in their hands now,"

The jury was deliberating. I wanted to crawl out of my skin. The thing was, this trial had felt less and less in my hands. It seemed entirely possible that Johnny would get the death penalty. And I could imagine it with frightening clarity. They'd shave his head because of the electrodes they place there, it conducts electricity better against skin. When the jolts hit there is the contortion of all the muscles, sometimes the fingers and toes curl backwards, curls of smoke, singed flesh, that silent scream because the vocal chords freeze, can't make a sound…

"Dean!" My eyes cleared and I snapped to attention. Clyde, holding onto me. If he hadn't been I might have fallen.

"I'm okay," I lied dully, and slipped seamlessly back into my visions of capital punishment.


	42. ch42

………………………….The Verdict

We filed back in the courtroom, having got word that the jury had reached a verdict.

Now colors were too bright and sounds were dull, like I was far down in some tin tunnel. I couldn't catch my breath.

Johnny was breathing in short gasps. He was pale. We watched the jury walk into the courtroom, take their familiar places.

The judge read the charges. Murder in the first degree. I held my breath, this was the charge that carried the death penalty.

The jury foreman spoke, and I don't know why I was surprised that he looked old and solidly middle class.

"We find the defendant not guilty,"

The second charge was read, manslaughter by provocation.

"We find the defendant guilty as charged,"

Johnny still stood but held onto the table. I felt everyone's eyes on the back of my neck.

"So say you, so say you all?" The judge said.

"Yes,"

…………………..Watering Hole

I was at the twilight bar, a drink twinkling in front of me. I kept thinking of how they lead Johnny away in handcuffs, the way he looked at me over his shoulder.

"What're ya drinking?" Dallas set his beer down on my table, hooked his leg over the chair.

"Just soda,"

I looked at Dallas, his hair blond as a child's, the light blue eyes. I remembered there was a time I feared him. Now I didn't fear anything.

He put a hand on my arm and I looked at him, wished there was rum in my coke.

"Listen, man, thanks. Thanks for all you did for Ponyboy and Johnny…"

I licked my lips. What did I do? The state of Oklahoma wouldn't kill Johnny, that was true. But tomorrow he'd be sentenced to something. He was still in jail.

I shrugged, felt a twinge of pain where the bullet had struck.

"No, listen," Dallas said, and I looked at him, overwhelmed by the power and presence he commanded at 17, "you did a lot for those kids. I know that. You should be proud of that," He lifted the beer to his lips and swallowed. Of all the things I felt I wasn't sure proud was one of them.

"Sure, you're welcome," I said, desperately scanning the back of the bar for the bottle that could make me feel better. Bombay Sapphire Gin, the bottle as light blue as Dallas' eyes. Sweet Vermouth in the sinister dark green bottle, the rich yellows and golds of Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, Skull's Red Eye. I sighed. Just soda for me.

"Mr. Williams, Johnny'll be okay," I turned from the rows of bottles back to Dallas, and saw that he was only 17 after all. What could he know?

…………………..The Sentence

Johnny trembled as he stood beside me, the suit I bought him ill fitting. I was sorry I couldn't take him to Boston with me, sorry he was still a prisoner here. Sorry I'd ever took him and Ponyboy from Windrixville.

"Johnny," the judge said, and the use of the familiar name was not lost on either of us. The judge was old, white haired, thick jowled, faded little blue eyes peering down at us.

"I sentence you to no less than five years in the juvenile detention center,"

They lead him away. He'd go back to the jail and from there he'd be brought to the detention center.

I walked out, the feeling of failure laying on me like a second skin. I shrugged off thanks because it wasn't deserved.

I bought a plane ticket for Boston. Left the very next night.

…………………….Epilogue

……………………….Boston, 1971

I was in my office and the weather was just turning from winter to spring. I looked up from my piles of papers out at the blue sky, felt the relief that comes every year with spring.

"Mr. Williams?" My secretary, young thin thing named Sally, blond hair contrasting with her dark eyebrows.

"Yes?"

"There's some people here to see you,"

"Sally, you know it's too late for appointments,"

"I know, I know. But they say they know you. Knew you, I mean. In Oklahoma,"

I felt cold, a funny coldness spreading by nerve endings everywhere.

"Okay, then. Sure. Send them in,"

And they came in. Unmistakably Ponyboy and Johnny, and I quickly did the math. Ponyboy was 19, Johnny, 21.

Their hair was long, as was the fashion, but free of grease. Ponyboy sported a mustache that was redder than his hair, and Johnny's hair curled at the ends and touched his collar. They both wore faded bell bottoms, denim coats with fur trim.

"Hi, Mr. Willims," Ponyboy, his voice deeper now, a man's voice.

"Hi," Johnny mumbled, and he sounded more or less the same.

"Hi, uh, sit, please," I gestured toward the chairs and they sat, "you two want anything? Soda, coffee…?" I was ready to call Sally back but they shook their heads.

"No, it's okay. We're fine," Ponyboy said for both of them.

"Well, what are you doing in Boston?"

"Checking out colleges," Ponyboy said, smiling, "I brought Johnny because he knew you were in Boston. He wanted to find you,"

I looked at Johnny. Still quiet, still young looking. He looked maybe 16 or 17 now, not 21. Ponyboy, taller and bigger, looked years older. And he still looked wounded, suspicious, wary. I wondered what had happened to him at the juvenile detention center.

"How are you?" I said to Johnny, looking at him look down at the floor.

"Good," he said, glancing up at me.

"Yeah, good now that he's out of juvy," Ponyboy said, laughing, playfully shoving Johnny. Johnny smiled.

"Yeah, that's good,"

I felt a bit of the sharp guilt abate. Johnny was still alive, after all, and whatever might have happened to him at the juvenile detention center, he was free now.

"It was good to see you," Ponyboy said, rising to go. Young men, they had bars to go to, chicks to pick up. I stood, too. He offered me his hand and I shook it.

"Bye," Johnny said softly, and I wanted to grab him, hug him, but I was afraid. He held out his hand to me and I shook it, placing my other hand on top of both of ours. I almost felt like I was going to cry.

"Bye. Take care," I said. They nodded as they headed for the door. Ponyboy went ahead. At the doorway Johnny turned back and looked me straight in the eyes, something I could recall him doing only once before.

"Mr. Williams?" he said.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for everything. I mean it. I never got to tell you, that's why I had Pony bring me with him. Thanks for everything,"

The guilt dissolved, and after five years of blame I forgave myself. I had tried my best with that trial, and as Clyde had said, it's all anybody could ask.

"You're welcome, Johnny,"

He smiled, showing his teeth. Waved and followed Ponyboy out the door. I waved to the empty room and swallowed over the lump in my throat, felt tears in the corners of my eyes.

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Author's Note: Thank you guys so much for all the reviews, all the wonderful feedback. I hope you enjoyed this story…please tell me what you think now that it is finished.

Love always,

gloryblastit


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